


The Calendar Year

by DjDangerLove



Category: Iron Man - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, But he has to learn how to use it sometimes, Dead Aunt May, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family, Father-Son Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Parent Tony Stark, Tony Becomes Peter's Guardian, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Has A Heart, but they will figure it out, not a perfect one though, other characters will be added as they appear - Freeform, steve rogers - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-27
Updated: 2018-06-03
Packaged: 2018-12-20 08:16:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 31,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11916846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DjDangerLove/pseuds/DjDangerLove
Summary: It takes one night for Tony Stark to become Peter Parker's legal guardian. It takes an entire year for them to feel like family.





	1. December

The nineteenth of December falls on a cold Thursday in New York with snow clouds puffing up along the skyline some odd miles east for those rich enough to see it from their bedroom windows. F.R.I.D.A.Y. frames the view by drawing the blackout curtains at an early six o’clock on the dot instruction from Mr. Stark the previous evening to which he sluggishly rolls from his infrequently used bedsheets to stare at the incoming snowstorm. 

“How long until the snow, F.R.I.D.A.Y. ?”

“Expect the snow to begin falling at approximately one thirty this afternoon, Sir.”

A hum is his response, followed softly by the dull thud of his forehead resting against the naturally frosted pane glass window. Minutes pass as he lets the winter chill seep into his skin. Only when he thinks he’s awake enough to maneuver himself down the hall and find the coffee machine does he pull away. 

The smooth marbled edge of the kitchen island presses against his lower back as he props himself up to wait out the chase of the caffeine headache thundering in his left temple with black coffee. He savors small sips, despite wanting to down the entire pot in one go, and glances around the room as if he’s a guest in his own space. 

Everything looks the same as it had three weeks ago, except the calendar hanging on the refrigerator. As a new addition to Stark Tower a week previous, its welcoming had been a bit tense. Its extend stay a bit more composing. The day’s date is circled, a thin red line of ink nearly cutting off the top of the numerical one and crossing out the nine entirely. A clear depiction of the uncertainty the day would bring as unmistakable Stark handwriting declares that _“appointment @ 9am”_ is bound to occur. 

He swallows the urge to call Pepper along with the last of his coffee that has grown cold in his moment of mounting anxiety, knowing neither could effectively get him out of his prior commitment. He figures a shower is the next best thing to make him ready for the day, a quick one so that he can tinker in his workshop until it is time to leave, but F.R.I.D.A.Y. redirects him when he reaches his bathroom door. 

“Sir, it appears that Mr. Parker has disabled the alarm in his room. I am unable to fulfill my task of alerting him for the morning.” 

A short huff of air escapes him, calloused fingers making quick work of massaging their way down his face. “Okay.”

It’s another reminder from F.R.I.D.A.Y. several minutes later until Tony convinces himself to head toward the teenager’s room. The door is closed, the knob resistant to being twisted for entry. “F.R.I.D.A.Y.” Tony gives as a command, knowing the A.I. will follow through with the order, but uncertain if he can follow through with his own. The lock clicks out of place and his wavering fingers give an experimental twist to the handle that easily gives way. 

Light from the hall rolls out into the dark room as the door swings wide, his shadow towering down the middle of it. He makes a few cautious steps, because all teenagers in every movie Tony has ever watched have trip hazards laying in the floor for the adults who saunter in unwelcome. He expects no less from Peter, and when he makes his way across the spotless floor to the bed alongside the wall the nagging doubts of the past three weeks way heavily on him once again. 

“Peter?”

His voice seems loud in the silent room, enough so that the boy he called to should have jumped from the sheets given his recent sleeping habits, but he doesn’t receive so much as a flinch. It’s a form of honesty he understands, but that selfish part of him that everyone has been keen on reminding him of lately rears its ugly head and has him wishing Peter would go back to lying to him about what they deemed the _big stuff_.

He’s better than that though, or so he’s trying to prove to the world and himself. And Peter. 

Air escapes him again, quiet and accepting of the status quo no matter how difficult it is to navigate, regardless of the amount of black coffee in the morning. “Everyone thinks we should go.”

He knows he shouldn’t try to anticipate what the kid laying atop the high thread count sheets will do given he’s been wrong on too many accounts the past three weeks, but he feels something he has to swallow hard against when he hears that soft, expected question of, “What do you think?”

The voice is void of tears and steady, another small victory in the marathon Tony only admits to feeling being thrown and slightly dragged into when he’s down in the workshop fiddling with something so hard the rough skin of his fingers begin to give way under the stress and bleed. He picks at a band-aid around his left index, giving the back of Peter’s head an uncertain glance. 

“I think….to hell with what everyone else thinks” he offers, but then nudges the kid in the back. “But I _know_ this could be….okay for us. Good even, but that’s for us to decide. Not anyone else, and if we don’t go we’ll never know and be reduced to live as everyone thinks we should, and that’s just not acceptable. So, up you get. Shower, dress, breakfast. All of that. We’re leaving in forty-five and so help me God, if your stomach makes those weird mewling sounds like I’m a billionaire whose let a kid living under his roof starve in front of the therapist I will demote Pepper to being your nutritionalist for the next two months.”

“I’m up! I’m up!” 

—————

When Peter was fourteen, a constant source of anxious energy and clad in the new Spider-Man suit _“Mr. Stark”_ had given him, Tony would lean against the back of the elevator as it descended the tower and watch with amusement at how the boy would contain his excitement. He would shift his weight, ask Tony a hundred questions he never bothered to answer in the time it took to travel down ten stories, and mutter to Karen about one thing or another. Okay, maybe contain wasn’t the best way to put it. Nevertheless, it was all things Tony pretended to be annoyed by, but honestly looked forward to on days he allowed the kid to stop by for an upgrade on his suit. 

Those days are just over a year behind them now, the kid in front of him shifting with a different kind of anxiousness under jeans, sneakers, and two long sleeve shirts. He’s quiet now, even though Tony is more willing to hold a conversation with him as the elevator whirs itself down to the garage. 

Tony adjusts his tinted glasses, preparing himself to be the one to ask too many questions for his own good this time, when F.R.I.D.A.Y. opens the elevator doors. Peter seems to shoot out of the lift only to ricochet when he notices his winter coat on a newly acquired hook by the cabinet of car keys. Making his way over to grab it, he says, “Oh, I wondered….well, no I forgot about my jacket, but I never would have thought to look for it down here.” 

Tony follows at a much slower pace, although out of reluctance rather than a sense of calm, and shrugs at Peter. “Pepper must have needed a reason to buy another coat rack.” It’s a half truth. Pepper does have an affinity for organizational decor. The fact that she only bought one for the workshop because Tony kept tossing Peter’s jackets across DUM-E or a pile of scraps because he knew the kid would forget to bring one until the car had left the garage, well what’s it to Peter?

—————

The drive to their appointment is predictably quiet. Tony had decided two car rides ago that blaring Iron Maiden from the car’s stereo wasn’t doing anything to make car trips more comfortable for either of them. Instead, he lets public radio create a white noise to shadow the sounds of car horns and squelching tires along the twenty minute drive to the doctor’s office. 

Tony parks the car in the furthest spot from the door, a silent gesture of patience towards Peter who still looks unsure. He mindlessly taps at his phone, opening apps only to close them and skimming over emails to look like he’s actually conducting business. If Peter knows what he’s doing, he seems okay with it as he puts on his jacket the way a turtle hides back in its shell. 

“Ready?” Tony asks, pushing his glasses up his nose like every bit of the celebrity he is. 

Peter nods, fiddling with the zipper of his jacket while waiting for the older man to start the process of getting out. It’s taking longer than the kid expects so he voices two uncertain “yeah”s in a row before reaching for the handle. 

They walk side by side through the parking garage, breaths painting the air with smoky clouds of nervousness. When they reach the door, Tony only pauses long enough to reassure Peter that, “We can leave whenever you want to, but ….you have to give it a chance first.”  
He almost gets through it without wincing at the pain it causes him. He doesn’t want to force Peter to come here. Never wanted to bring him here in the first place, but the others insisted. Swore that even if it hadn’t helped Tony all those years ago, it may help Peter. 

It’s what Tony wants, to help Peter, but doesn’t know how to do so and it’s nearly crippled him the past month. The only other time he’s felt truly incapable of something was convincing his father he was a good, worthy son of the Stark name. 

“I…I will, Mr. Stark.”

Tony rolls his eyes while pushing Peter through the door, “If anything, maybe this therapist can hypnotize you and convince you to call me Tony.” At Peter’s worried tug of his jacket sleeve, Tony adds, “Or make you do a horrible impression of a billy goat.”

It’s not quiet the laugh he was going for, but the bony elbow to his ribs has been the best part of his day so far. 

————

Tony has every intention of plopping down on a cushioned couch, arm thrown across the back, one leg braced atop the other in hopes that if he were to appear relaxed and at ease, then Peter will, too. It’s a very well thought out strategy he came up with on the short walk from the waiting room to the therapist’s office and he feels quite confident going in. 

That is, until he’s actually in said office that doesn’t have so much as a chair. Sure, there’s the usual calming art on the walls, a few plants and some knickknacks. A circular, midnight blue rug has even been laid out to hide the majority of standard issue office carpet. It’s warm, if Tony were ever inclined to describe a room as such, but there’s the distinct lack of a couch and it throws him for a split second. 

“See, Peter. There’s plenty of room in here for animal impressions.” 

The speed at which Peter’s head turns should have caused his neck to crack, and at the kid’s shocked horror-filled expression, Tony silently hopes that whatever happens in all of this he never loses the ability to make Peter distracted by such silly things. 

“Oh, Peter,” a female voice calls from the doorway. “I’m so glad you made it.” The woman reminds Tony a lot of Pepper. He’d never take her to his penthouse or let her run his company, but she has a kind air about her that Peter will probably respond to. 

She pushes long strands of black hair behind her shoulders with annoyance, the slight waves in her hair the same as the ones in Pepper’s when she lets it down from a ponytail. “I’ve had several people cancel because of the snow. Happy to see there’s still some born and raised New Yorkers who know how to continue living in the Winter. I’m Allison.”

She extends her hand to Peter who noticeably wipes his palm against the side of his pant leg before accepting the offered greeting. She pretends not to notice, but Tony doubts she’s even fazed at all by the clammy hand of a teenager. She instead smiles warmly at him when he manages to stutter out his name even though she’s already used it upon arrival. She turns her head to the window, squinting just a bit as if it helps to judge how far off the snowstorm is. “Now, still let me know when you think you both need to leave in order to get home safely.”

The older man nearly melts into his shoes with the relief of the obvious out she’s offering them, but Peter cranes his neck to see out the window. When the kid’s shoulders deflate, Tony knows he’s already determined the snowstorm is too far off to make that a believable excuse. 

 

“We will.” Good thing Tony isn’t above using it if need be. He extends his hand out to her. She accepts it like he’s no more important than Peter, and he knows his initial comparison of her to Pepper is accurate. “Tony Stark.”

“I’m glad you could be here, too, Tony.”

“See, kid. She just met me and she’s already using my first name. We’ve come to the right place,” he says, slapping Peter’s arm with the back of his hand, delighting in the blush rushing up the shell of Peter’s ears. 

“Yes, while I would have to agree you have, it’s not my job to convince Peter of anything, including what to call you,” Allison reasons and smiles gently at the boy who looks relieved. “As I was saying earlier, a lot of people have cancelled because of the snow including the moving truck with all of my furniture so I apologize for the space. We’re welcome to use another office, but I’m new here as well so I was hoping you wouldn’t mind helping me feel more acquainted with my own office. I do have a couple of bean bag chairs I can pull from storage down the hall.”

Tony wants to scoff, backtrack on his assessment of her, because this is about Peter. About making Peter feel comfortable, relaxed and he would be more so in an office with a couch! 

“I don’t mind, Allison. Ned and I sit in bean bag chairs all the time.” 

It’s Tony’s neck this time that swivels quickly and it does crack in protest at the movement. He rubs at it as the kid explains who Ned is and helps Allison drag the bean bag chairs in. Tony moves to claim the black one dropped on the outer edge of the rug and notices the distinct imprint of four indentions in a perfect square. Upon further inspection there’s a lot of those indentions scattered around the carpet, but Allison catches his knowing gaze with a pleading one of her own. 

She softens her eyes, moves them slowly enough so that Tony knows to follow where she looks and he finds the bean bag hugging Peter the way it’s meant to hold a kid. The billionaire blinks hard, determined to get this mirage of a woman to turn into Pepper. 

Allison, all sun bathed skin and black hair, sinks down Indian style on the floor and leans against the bean bag at her back. “Tony? Would you like to sit?”

It comes out as a question, but he knows it's not. 

He feels like an old man easing himself down into the black bag of polystyrene. It makes a weird noise and has Peter not quite giggling. Tony sits ramrod straight, hands on his knees, expensive suit creasing in all the wrong places. _He_ would have been much more comfortable in an office with a couch. He’s also the worst. 

————  
The hard hitting questions never come up. Tony’s issues locked away in a dark closet are never brought to light. Peter’s situation is never addressed. They just…have a conversation. For two hours. 

Allison engages with Peter like they use to know each other, but haven’t spoken in a few years and Tony sits like the third wheel he’s never had the pleasure of experiencing until now. Leave it to a fifteen year old kid to steal his thunder. He’s not upset by it though, because Peter’s laughing. As in making audible noises of amusement, eyes crinkling on the sides and white teeth showing while telling some story about Ned getting stuck in the rails of his bunkbed when they were in sixth grade. 

Tony’s back hurts and he’s extremely hungry because while he made sure Peter ate something he was running on fumes and coffee, but he’d sit here for the rest of the week if it meant somebody made Peter laugh. It’s been nearly a month and he’s failed to gain more than a constipated smile from the kid. Allison talks to him for thirty minutes and he’s cackling.  
So maybe his back doesn’t hurt so much as his stomach that isn’t rumbling in need of food and maybe he just wants to sit here so that he doesn’t have to acknowledge what everyone else already knows. 

He’s not what Peter needs. 

There’s a distinct lack of voices that pulls him from his thoughts, and he’s welcomed back into their conversation with matching inquisitive looks. He turns to the window. “Looks like we should be heading out.”

Peter seems to tense, or maybe deflate, and if Allison asks to just keep him Tony’s not so sure he would fight her on it. 

“Of course, Tony, but I’d like to ask Peter one more thing if that’s alright.”

“Sure,” the word rolls off his tongue, but damn if he didn’t want it to. 

She raises up to prop her elbows on her knees and look up into Peter’s expectant face.  
“Peter, I want you to think for a minute. Don’t answer right away, just think about it for as long as you need to and then I want you to tell me something that you want. If you could have anything right now, and I do mean anything no matter how unobtainable it might seem, what would it be? Okay?”

The kid's head jerks in a downward motion that Tony has come to recognize as a reluctant “yes” and fidgets noisily until he seems to think he’s attracting too much attention. Allison murmurs something to Tony, just small talk to take the pressure off of Peter which Tony thinks is a bit unfair, this was supposed to be about Peter after all. The boy is taking a lot longer than Tony wishes he would. It makes him want to confess right then and there. Admit to what _he_ wants and it isn’t to help Peter. It’s to help himself. To get his old life back of being the genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist he was so damn proud of. To be Iron Man again without worrying about some teenager crying himself to sleep or not eating dinner for the third night in a row. To not be a replica of Howard Stark to some innocent, sweet kid that’s had the worst cards in life dealt to him turn and turn again. 

“Allison,” Peter says just about the time Tony is about to burst. “I want…I want to be able to decide what okay is for me.” The boy’s eyes catch his, the circumference of the rug feeling like two lifetimes between them instead of the one they’ve been gathered into. Peter looks back to Allison and Tony takes it as one last moment of abandonment. “I want …I want us to figure that out. Nobody else.”

There’s a pain in his chest he hasn't felt since being hooked to a car battery in Afghanistan. 

 

“Peter, that’s very good. Would it be alright if I helped you?”

Tony wants to lunge at her, if only he could get out of the damn bean bag fast enough to make it count. _Of course, it’s alright! He just told you he wanted the two of you to figure it out!_

“I am certain that you and Tony are fully capable of maneuvering into this new chapter, but sometimes it helps to have an outside perspective. Not someone telling you where to get to or how to get there, but more like….someone standing at each stop you make along the way asking you about the trip.”

 _What the actual hell? Oh! Peter meant us, as in him and me._ Tony’s breaths are coming in shorter and shorter, arms circling his knees like the car battery he used to have to carry around. “Mr.S-stark?” Air catches in his throat, and it feels like grains of sand against his windpipe. He coughs until a hand is on his shoulder and he grasps the threatening touch hard until the hand squeezes back unaffected. _Peter._ “Mr. Stark?”

“Fine! Fine, just something in my throat,” he croaks, quickly looking anywhere but the kid standing above him. He pats the hand in his and lets it go, looking to Allison in a bit of urgency. “You were saying?”

“I was asking Peter if it would be alright with him if I could continue to meet with the two of you. It’s…not mandatory,” she says like maybe she didn’t want to let that bit of information slip after Tony’s recent behavior. “But this is a big change for the both of you.”

Tony barely resists the urge to flinch when Peter leans slightly into him. “Yes, well kid, what do you think?” It feels like he has to tap into reserved energy just to put his arm around him. 

“I-I think…it’s okay.”

“Great! I’ll have Pepper set up another time. Come along, Peter.”

“Uh, Mr. Stark? Tony! There’s a few papers I have that you need to sign. It won’t take but a minute, I promise.” He knows what she’s doing, but if he tries to get away with pretending otherwise he risks Peter finding out, too. 

“Yeah, sure. Peter, I’ll just be a minute.” 

The door closes behind her and Tony sighs. “Alright, lets have it. You want to just give me some bullet points out of the _100 Qualities a Legal Guardian Should Not Have_ book, or do you want to record your segment for the podcast that every one who has ever known me is putting together? They’re having to rework the title because it’s already taken by the book previously mentioned.”  
“Mr. Stark, I-“

“Oh, so Tony in front of the kid. Mr. Stark behind close doors, I see-“

“Mr. Stark, when you made this appointment, I honestly didn’t think you would show.”

Tony attempts to laugh that off, but Allison steps away from the door and onto the boundary of his personal space. “But you did, and I gave you an out that I thought you would take in less than thirty minutes, but you stayed two hours. You even went along with sitting in bean bag chairs, and despite having a mild panic attack in the middle of my office made sure to never let Peter see you as anything but composed.”

“Why would I be anything less?”

“Because you have the responsibility of a kid who has lost everything. Because you’re telling yourself that even you, Tony Stark, the man who _has_ everything can’t give him the one thing he needs most. But you’re wrong, Mr. Stark.”

She’s not playing mind games. She’s stepping back so not to crowd him, to not make him feel inadequate when coming up short about his own feelings and thoughts. She’s holding out a paper that has a blank calendar on it for the month of January- that’s identical to the one for December hanging on his refrigerator -and a red pen. 

“You’re the only person who thinks so.”

“No, I don’t know if you can give him what he needs.”

“Then what could I possibly be wrong about?” He demands, running the pen along the calendar boxes until he finds a familiar number. 

“Peter hasn’t lost everything.”

“Really?” Tony asks a bit more harshly than intended. “Tell me how losing your last living relative at the age of fifteen isn’t considered losing everything?”

Allison reaches out to take the paper back and turns it so that Tony can see. There’s the same uncertain circle around the 19th of January and his unmistakable handwriting of _“appointment @ 9am”._

“Because he’s got you.”

 

————

F.R.I.D.A.Y. alerts him of the appropriate time to begin making dinner and it startles him to think he’s left the kid alone upstairs for four and a half hours after returning from his first therapy appointment, or their first therapy appointment. Tony isn’t sure what he’s supposed to call it.  
He enters the kitchen with a bit more urgency than probably deemed necessary, but he works through guilt a bit differently than most and has the tendency to do drastic things to earn good graces, like planning a smorgasbord of food for dinner that he has no idea how to prepare, but will attempt it anyway before ordering out Thai food from three different places.

So, in his planning frenzy it’s hard to stop when he rounds the corner and comes face to face with Peter carrying a large cardboard box. They collide in a jovial manner but the box falls between them with a dramatic shatter. Tony begins to scold him, but it's lighthearted and not at all demanding of the way Peter’s face blanches.

“Geez, kid. I’m just kidding-“

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Stark! Oh my God! I didn’t mean- I just thought- Oh God, oh God! I’ll find someway to fix them. Replace them.”

“What? Peter, full sentences. They’re good for you. And me. Use them.”

“I wanted- and I thought - but I said - and then I- oh my God, please don’t be mad,” Peter nearly drops to floor when bending down and his hands are shaking as they scrambled to sweep broken shards of glass together.

“Hey! Woah, woah! Stop, Peter!” Tony crouches down and reaches for the kid’s wrists. “I know you got super healing and all, but that still doesn’t mean I won’t have to pick the glass out of your fingers. Dum-E can clean this up. What is it?” Tony looks down and nudges the overturned box with an elbow until a cracked Santa face is peeking out at them and Tony feels the weight of that car battery again. 

“Mr. Stark- I’m sorry! I just- I didn’t see you! I-“

“Peter.” His voice is quiet, but he feels Peter wince from where his hand is still around a bony wrist. “Just… it’s fine. Let me clean it up, okay? Just go….to your room.” It’s not what he meant to say, but the kid is gone before he can correct himself.

He sits on the floor with the only box left of his mother’s favorite Christmas decorations in pieces.

—————

Dinner time is long gone by the time he’s done cleaning up the mess, every last piece of his mother’s favorite holiday out in the dumpster being buried by snow. He tries to tell himself it doesn’t matter. He’s never opened that box since the trinkets were placed in it, but he can’t quite forget why he put them in there to begin with. 

He finds himself at Peter’s door before he can really decide to go there. He knocks and hears a quick shuffle of material before he’s allowed in. He takes a deep breath, preparing himself for the sight of Peter’s tear-stained face after the sound of the nasally, “Come in.”

 

Peter is sitting at his desk, placing the lid back on a weathered shoebox. He swipes at his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt and turns to Tony who eases himself down on the bed.  
“I’m sorry-“ is said in unison, both strained in the air that seems to stand still around them. The older man holds up his hand and repeats his words a bit more firmly. “I didn’t mean to banish you to your room or anything, it’s just….” he trails off, because hell they’ve already done the therapy discussion thing today. He doesn’t have it in him to have a heart-to-heart tonight. 

“Here,” Peter says instead, moving so that he’s standing directly in front of Tony like a brave solider on the front lines and holds out the shoebox. Tony sighs and takes the offered item, placing it in his lap to remove the lid. When he does, the most ugly hand painted figurine is staring up at him. He thinks it might be an angel, but one of the wings is deformed and maybe this thing was used in a claymation adaptation of the Poltergeist, because damn the thing looks possessed. 

“Uh, Peter-“

“I know it’s hideous,” Peter assures, but almost like he wishes he didn’t. “It’s just when…my parents…you know, when they passed, Aunt….May was really into this pottery class. She…made it for me like to remind me my parents were always looking out for me, or something.”

Tony doesn’t want to even touch it, afraid he will be cursed. 

“It’s not the….easiest thing to look at or….have on a shelf in your room. I mean, it is pretty creepy looking,” Peter explains, and lets out a wet, almost-laugh. “It’s just she was so proud of it, I think, when she gave it to me. She thought it was special or something, I don’t know. I didn’t have the heart to tell her how….ugly it was.”

Tony takes the risk of looking up at Peter, because he thinks it’ll be less terrifying than looking at the doll in the box. The tears gathering at the corners of the brown eyes above him prove otherwise. 

“Anyway, it just….it really means a lot to me, because- well, it just does and you should have it. Break it, I mean. Throw it away, or whatever, because I didn’t mean to break your Christmas box!” Peter insists, his voice getting higher, his words coming quicker. “I know I said I didn’t want anything to do with Christmas, but it just seemed wrong. So I thought maybe, maybe a little Christmas wouldn’t hurt, but it was so last minute and everything! I don’t really have any money to buy anything, and I wasn’t going to ask you because that’s just- it wasn’t anything important. Not…not a necessity. You’ve already done so much- I didn’t know if I could go back hom- to the apartment or where she even kept that stuff-or how I would get it all back here! So I …I asked F.R.I.D.A.Y. if there were any in the-in the tower.”

Peter sucks in a deep, soggy breath and it nearly kills Tony to let him keep going, but this is longest Peter has talked to him at one time since Aunt May died three weeks ago.

“She, she said there was! In-in your room! And I shouldn’t, I _know_ , I shouldn’t have went in there, but I did. I figured it’s one box! But then I saw the writing on top….about your…mom. But I had already gotten it, so like what was going to be the harm in putting out tinsel or something? Honestly, Mr. Stark! I didn’t mean to break that stuff. I don’t know how I can find all those things to replace and it wouldn’t be the same anyway, so the only thing I can think of is to let you break something of mine like that. Something…something special!”

Tony reaches up then, wraps his hands around Peter’s heaving shoulders and flips them so the boy is sitting down on the bed and Tony standing above him, the box with the ugly figurine in Peter’s lap. “Okay, alright!” He soothes, letting his hands fall down the boy's arms to his elbows while crouching down so he’s looking up at him, instead of towering over him. “Just breathe a second. Let us both do that before we break out the heart-to-heart stuff, because I really wasn’t prepared for this when I came in here, but that’s irrelevant. Just breathe a second. Okay, kiddo?”

Peter nods and Tony waits until he starts to feel creeped out by the doll now way too close to his face for comfort. “Alright, first of all. You’re absolutely right,” Tony gently squeezes the kid’s elbows when he feels him tense and hurries to finish. “That doll…angel…whatever it’s supposed to be is…terrifying. Please, don’t put that out on display in here if you can help it. Otherwise, I’ll probably have to hire a Shaman or something to come in here with me.”

Peter grins like he’s trying hard not let his teeth show and Tony huffs out a laugh of his own. “Which means, I’m definitely not going to take it from you, let alone break it! That will probably curse me for seven years or something.”

“That’s if you break a mirror.”

“See, you know too much about all the superstitious-cursed figurine business already. Not chancing it. Regardless, I still wouldn’t take it from you. I….never would, Peter. Hell, I know I’m not the saint Cap is, but I don’t think I’m that bad.”

“You’re not! I didn’t mean-“

“Relax. I know, I’m just making a point, which I’m getting back to now. You said a lot of stuff there, kid. A lot of stuff we probably need to discuss, but let’s hit some highlights and then find something for dinner, because it’s nearly midnight and I don’t think I’ve fed you since this morning.”

Peter’s nose scrunches up just a bit. “I don’t need scheduled feedings. I’m fifteen.”

“A skinny fifteen year old,” Tony adds. “Now, tomorrow you and I will either do one of two things. The first being spending ridiculous amounts of money on Christmas decorations that we will probably only use half of or….go back to…the apartment and grab your usual stuff. Up to you, you can let me know in the morning when you’ve had to time to think it over. Capisce?”

Peter nods along, but somehow would rather look at the doll than Tony. 

“Good. Lastly, we need to make a very important decision.”

“Okay…? What is it?”

 

“Where we’re going to find decent take out in the middle of a snowstorm at twelve o’clock at night.” 

 

————

 

Peter ends up deciding that he would rather go back to what use to be his home for the Christmas decorations, but doesn’t end up telling Tony until two days later. He’s not been back since Tony helped him pack what little he wanted to take to the Tower the night of the accident. He’d actually not packed anything, resigning himself to nod yay or nay when Mr. Stark asked him if he wanted to bring an item with him. 

He’s nervous on the car ride over, and completely sick when they arrive at the building. Tony shuffles the snow left from the previous storm over the evidence of Peter’s churning stomach on the sidewalk. He asks the kid about a dozen times if he’s sure he wants to go in, tells him he doesn’t have to because Tony could just find it himself. Peter insists, even as Happy pulls himself from the driver’s seat of the vehicle to open the car door for them. 

Tony waves him off, telling him to wait in the car while pulling Peter along inside. 

The door seems stuck when Tony tries to open it and he starts to get a bit angry at the thought of the landlord changing the locks even though Tony has paid the entire building’s rent for the next three months just so Aunt May’s things wouldn’t be touched until Peter was ready to go through them. However, Peter pushes him to the side a little and says, “You’ve got to jiggle the handle and lean your weight in the right spot.” It’s a process, like everything seems to be when it comes to Peter. Tony shouldn’t be surprised. 

Everything is how Tony semi-remembers it being the only time he stepped foot inside the apartment over a year ago, talking to Peter’s _“Hot Aunt May”_ who’s now dead and it makes Tony’s mouth go a little dry to think of it. 

Peter disappears down the hall and Tony quickly moves to follow.  
“I think…I think it’s in the closet. It should be a couple of boxes. Not much.”

It’s as Peter says and not five minutes later there’s two boxes of Christmas decorations by the door ready to be taken away from the house they once served. “Take a minute to get anything else you’d like. I’ll have Happy call a truck around for whatever won’t fit in the car. No problem.”

Peter nods, grateful more than burdened by the offer for once. The older man busies himself with studying the apartment, trying to find answers on how best to move forward with Peter living in his home rather than this one. He loses himself, gets a bit more curious than he should when he spots a big crack in the wall running out from behind a store bought cow painting. He runs a finger along the side of the frame pushing it sideways to follow the crack to an indention in the wall. 

“Aunt May liked cows for some reason,” Peter’s voice startles him, causing his hand to jerk and the frame to fall from its nail. There’s no glass in frame thank goodness, so it just makes a sharp thud when it hits the floor on its corner. “I thought it was the best way to cover up the hole I made so she wouldn’t be so mad.”

“You did this? Let me guess, the Spider-Man thing?”

“No, no! Nothing like….it wasn’t that. It happened before.” Peter explains, moving to pick up the picture and place it back on the wall like Aunt May will come waltzing through the door and scold him for the damage if she sees it. “I was mad.”

“You know, kid, I’m having a hard time imagining you getting that angry.”  
It’s true, but it didn’t stop Tony from preparing to deal with the angry-at-the-world teenager phase when Peter first came to live with him. Rhodey and Pepper told him it was bound to happen at some point. Even that book on parenting traumatized children that he definitely did not read, said so. But it hadn’t happened yet. 

“It was after Uncle Ben died.”

 _Oh._ Tony can only nod. 

“She wasn’t too upset. I mean I guess she understood why….. but then, she’s probably just glad I didn’t run away from home again.”

Also a phase Tony was told to brace for, hence a dozen late nights making trackers for Peter’s shoes and jackets and anything else he could think of. “Again?”

“When my parents died…. I ran away to find them, because I didn’t believe they weren’t coming back. Police found me asleep on the subway.”

Peter turns to head in the direction of his room if memory serves Tony correctly. He follows behind him, not wanting the kid to be out of his sight for some reason. He sits down backwards in the computer chair at the desk, folds his arms across the back while watching Peter shuffle stuff around rather than pack anything. He wonders if maybe the reason Peter has never acted out the way everyone expected him to was because he’d already done so. Maybe Tony just gets the silent, uninterested phase. _To hell with that._

 

“Alright, kid. What are you thinking? Should we pack clothes first? Or the Star Wars toys?”

“They’re not toys! They’re….collectibles.”

“Potato, Potahto.”

They pack a few bags of clothes, books and other things, but eventually Peter seems to tire of it more quickly than Tony does considering the boy sinks down onto his bed. But upon further scrutiny, the older man realizes Peter is thinking hard about something. 

“Spill it, kid.”

A soft sigh escapes him as he wrings his hands in the bedsheets.  
“Mr. Stark?”

“Mr. Parker?”

The boy scrunches his nose up at him, but shakes his head deciding to go with his first train of thought. “I…I was wondering…. well, I mean don’t get me wrong, the bed in my room- the room at your place is nice. Like _so nice._ And it’s comfy! But-“

“Your bunk will be delivered by tomorrow night. Anything else?”

“Really?!”

“I’m not going to deny you sleeping in your own bed.”

Peter falls back onto the hard mattress like it’s made of feathers. “Thank you so much, Mr. Stark.”

Tony puts a hand on the railing, palm cupping the welded line in it from where they had to cut the piece to get Ned’s leg out of it from the story Peter had told Allison two days prior. Suddenly wishing to hear the kid’s laugh again, he looks down at the boy on the bottom bunk and says, “I’m only doing this so that I can witness Ned trying to do a flip from this thing.”

Peter’s laugh bursts out into the room but it settles around them like it’s meant to be there. 

—————

 

It’s Christmas Eve before Peter decides to open the box of Christmas decorations they’d gotten from May’s. Tony never batted an eye at the excuses given for the delay, just patient enough to let the kid come to it when he was ready. He’s never wanted to force the kid to do anything after May died, despite the others telling him he should, that it’s part of being a guardian. 

Tony sips coffee and reads some tabloids at the couch in the living room while Peter opens the box on the floor. He tries to make it seem like he’s not watching Peter’s every move so he’ll know if he needs to step in before the kid can work himself up into water-works or a panic attack whichever comes first, but Peter turns his head to look at him so suddenly Tony can only offer a weak grin in apology after being caught. 

“Mr.Stark?”

“Mr.Parker?”

He gets an eye roll in response. _Teenagers._

“I…Is it…would it be okay if I didn’t…get this out?”

Tony blinks at him. They’d made progress. Or so he thought.

“I know we went to get it and everything, it’s just. She’s…she’s not _here._ ” The tears fall on the box like it’s Peter’s own way of ruining the last remnants of his own Christmas memories.  
“Hey, hey,” and if Tony knew he could make his voice that soft, he’d probably have had a lot less crying babies being shoved in his direction by parents wanting pictures of their kids with Iron Man. “We’ll put it up in your room, okay? The box, I mean. So maybe next year or something. It’s fine, Peter.” Tony gathers the box and heads in the direction of Peter’s room. He tucks it away in the closet behind some coats so it isn't visible just by opening the door. Turning around, Peter stands in the middle of the room looking unsure where his place in the world is and Tony remembers that feeling. Remembers that feeling on Christmas, too. 

“I have an idea,” he says, because he’s not a hugger even if he wants to smother the kid in them until he’s not quite so lost. 

“Okay.”

————

They enter the workshop not five minutes later and Tony heads over to where he keeps the scrap pieces, motioning Peter along. “Grab anything colorful or that catches your eye.”

Peter begins sifting through without question, seemingly glad to have been given something to do rather than deciding for himself. Maybe Tony should start forcing him to do more things, after all.

When their arms are full, Tony leads him towards an empty wall in the shop and instructs him to lay out all the parts by size. Tony grabs some heavy duty glue and a few rolls of duct tape and tells Peter to start attaching the bigger pieces at the bottom of the wall and work his way up in a triangle with the smaller ones. It takes some finesse, and a little over an hour, but eventually Tony asks Peter to stand back as he places one last vertical piece of scrap metal under the triangle to make their project officially in the shape of a Christmas tree. 

When he stands back at Peter’s side so he can see it, he becomes a little worried at the gasp coming from him, even more so when the kid knocks into him. It takes a second for him to realize that he’s being hugged and even longer for him to return the gesture. 

“Thank you, Mr. Stark!”

Tony isn’t a hugger, but he thinks maybe he could be if that’s what Peter needed. 

“Merry Christmas, kiddo.”


	2. January

The skyline miles out from New York City erupts in tiny bursts of color. Greens, reds, and blues all painting the black firmament with celebration and resolution. A solid streak of gold propels into the air and then showers out in shimmering particles of all the things people hope for in the coming year. It should be a beautiful sight, a perfect one when atop one of the tallest buildings in the city so one is able to see it from the distance, but for Peter Parker it’s a war zone. 

It’s all the things he cannot have igniting with all the things he still might want, and they all die out in the void between the lights. That’s where he feels he is, where all those things cannot, or should not, reach him. He feels safe for the first time in a long time though, up and away from the things of the world that will hurt him. 

With his legs dangling off the roof of Stark Tower where he sits, the winter wind dances with his clothes to brush up against his skin. The Spider-Man suit isn’t there to deter it, long since been taken from him like everything else in life, and so he’s left with a high thread count sweater one size too big and a case of gooseflesh. 

The breeze pushes at his hair, an oily strand of it falling into his eyes. He runs his fingers through it, tucking it back in with the rest up under the headband of the headphones he has on. They were a Christmas gift from Mr. Stark, the only one he’d been given despite not wanting any. The older man had assured him that they hadn’t cost him a penny, that he’d made them with materials he already had down in the workshop, hence the reason they weren’t earbuds. _“So you can’t feel guilty about them,”_ he’d said as he extended them out to Peter for inspection. Of course, it didn’t stop him from feeling so, considering when he slipped them on his confusion as to why Mr. Stark made him headphones in the first place melted away along with everything else. The mechanical genius that is Tony Stark held up a sheet of paper that read: _Spiderling-Senses Cancelling Headphones._

Peter had been so grateful for the first bit of true silence since Aunt May’s death that he’d left them on until he was certain he wouldn’t be able to fall asleep in them. His mind began to scream once he’d laid down on his bottom bunk bed that had arrived a couple of days prior as Mr. Stark had promised. As he reached up to take them off though, his finger ran over a button of some sort and noise from the city filtered through the headphones at the volume it usually had before he’d been bitten. 

Minutes had ticked by at an unnoticed pace as he listened to the hustle and bustle of city life. He’d expected a generic loop of white noise and tried to pick out where it started back over, but one glance at the clock an hour into trying he gave up. He buried himself in his bedsheets while car horns beeped and air conditioning units kicked on and died out. Sleep had nearly claimed Peter when he heard a familiar and frail, feminine voice call for _“Gypsy”._ He felt his knuckles crack as they tightened around his sheets and bit hard into his bottom lip when he heard the sound of a cat meowing in return alongside small pings of a bell against a collared tag. 

_Queens. From his old bedroom window._

He didn’t know how he’d thank Mr. Stark for such a thing, but the next morning when the older man had woken him up with a gentle smirk and helped pry his tear stained face from his pillowcase without a word, he didn’t think he needed to. 

 

A new firework ruptures in the air bringing Peter out of his memories before they can turn sour. However, the sound of pyrotechnics might be nonexistent to him, but their smell of sulfur and charcoal swirling throughout the air collects under his nose and in the back of his throat. He stares out into the bright night selfishly wishing that’s the last of them, that the rest of the city and all beyond doesn’t put so much hope in the turning of a calendar page that they celebrate for more than five minutes, because he can’t bring himself to. 

It’s how the fight had started after all, or maybe it started with the headphones. 

—————

Peter hadn't wanted to take the headphones off since he’d received them much to Mr. Stark’s displeasure. The kid had voiced his confusion, explaining that he thought the older man would be relieved considering how nervous Tony looked when he’d given them.  
“I love them, Mr. Stark.” 

“That’s great, kid. I’m glad, but you can’t wear them all the time. You gotta-…. live in the real world.” Tony countered, tugging the headphones from around Peter’s neck and fiddling with them. 

“Are you taking those away, too? Is that your way of making sure I stay in the _real world_ ? Make sure _everything_ gets taken away?” Desperation won out over anger in Peter’s voice, but the kid clinched his fists all the same remembering all too well how the suit had been taken from him a few days after Aunt May died. 

”I’m not taking anything from you, Peter, nor have I. I’m just-…trying to teach you moderation.Trust me. It’s a good skill to have.”

Peter felt his eyes narrow, too focused on controlling his anger on the outside was he that he couldn't stop the words from tumbling out from the inside.  
”I’m not so sure an alcoholic is the best choice to be teaching moderation.” 

He watched Tony, more qualified to teach the art of deception, keep his face relaxed and unhurt. “Well, I’m a recovering alcoholic. So, I’m practically a professor now. But here.” He tossed them back to Peter like they were burning his hands. ”The first lesson of the course is that a person has to realize there’s a problem to begin with. You’re clearly incapable of that so keep them. All other lectures are cancelled until the student can manage the first.” 

That had been three days before the new year and they hadn’t spoken since. 

Pepper had dropped by the day after the argument, startling Peter - with headphones in place- by showing up at the kitchen island when he turned around from making toast. After he’d tossed out the nearly burnt bread which turned soggy after he dropped it in the wet sink when he jumped, he pulled the headphones from his ears. “H-hey Pepper, what brings you here? I mean… of course, you’re here, you work with M-Mr. Stark, I just mean here as in this morning and now and when Mr. Stark isn’t here, or at least I don’t think he is-“

She smiled at him, offering a, “Hey, Peter,” as she rounded the island and started to drop two fresh slices of bread in the toaster. “I had to bring by some files for Tony, thought I’d stop in and see how you were handling everything. Considering you still make toast yourself instead of having one of the bots to do it, I’d say Tony hasn’t made you completely dependent yet.”

The marbled island fell in an awkward place against his back when he tried to lean against it so he hopped up to sit on top of it instead while huffing out a bitter laugh. “Not for lack of trying.”

Pepper tilted her head at him, strands of her long, strawberry blonde ponytail catching on the fuzz of her sweater as it swayed against her back. She pressed the button down and peered over into the toaster as if to make sure it was actually going to work before turning to fully face him. “Try not to be too hard him when he gets….persuasive. He’s not trying to be controlling. It’s just how he shows he cares.”

“I thought you said you were stopping by to check on _me,_ ” Peter said, giving a nervous arm gesture. 

“And I thought we were talking about the use of bots to make breakfast. You changed the subject first,” she pointed out with a knowing glance that had him hunching his shoulders. She moved over to the fridge, pulling out a half gallon of unopened orange juice Peter hadn’t noticed was in there the day before. “So what he’d do? Take the suit? Shower you with things you don’t need? Tell you what you should do, then make it things you have to do? Or my personal favorite, say something without any regards to your feelings?”

Peter blinked at her, surprised at how spot on she was even though he shouldn’t and also at the way she seemed to know where everything in the kitchen was like the two glasses she started pouring juice into. “A-all of the above actually.” She laughed softly at that and for a second it made Peter feel a tad guilty. “But….to be fair, I said some things, too.”

“Good,” she praised and handed him a glass. He curled his hands around it, but didn't bother to drink it. His stomach felt like it had enough acid in it already. She took a long sip from her own cup and went back over to the toaster to peer in. The bread wasn't done considering it hadn’t sprung from the machine, but she grabbed a plate from a cupboard to set beside it for when it was. “It’s the only way to remind him that his way doesn’t always work.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, the real reason I’m here on my holiday is because Tony called me saying that the fifteen year old kid living under his roof probably hates him which means he stocked the kitchen and went on an impromptu business trip.”

That explained the orange juice. 

“You don’t have to babysit me.”

The toaster jerked causing neither of them to flinch. Pepper retrieved the golden bread with burnt edges and dropped it on the plate. She moved around the kitchen, accessorizing the toast more than Peter thought necessary, before handing it out to him. “No. Nuh-uh. I already babysit one emotionally constipated genius turned superhero. I’m not adding another. No. You, Peter Parker, are going to tell me things.”

He took a bite of toast to try and hide the upturn of his mouth at her description of Mr. Stark. The honey and banana on top of it was surprisingly good. “What things?”

“Why’d he take the suit?”

His eyes widened a little and he was forced to take a sip of the acidic juice to quell his coughing fit. “Um….because-“ he cut himself off before he could say something to prove her raised eyebrow look that expressed her anticipation of a typical teenage response. He sighed and tossed his toast on the plate, wiping the crumbs from his hands on his pant legs.  
“He said I wasn’t ready. To go patrolling, I guess. I wasn’t focused enough with….with everything going on.”

“Are you?”

“Patrolling helps me focus! It takes my mind off-“ he stopped short and dropped his arms from their outstretched explanation attempts. “Off what happened.”

She reached out and took a bite from the end he hadn’t touched. Once she was done chewing she leaned sideways, hip resting against the counter a few inches from his leg. “So when you’re out there patrolling not thinking about…it…you’re in the middle of some fight, taking down a bad guy and all of sudden you’re reminded of it. Just a tiny bit. The guy gets the upper hand on you when you’re distracted. Maybe he hurts you and you heal quick. Maybe he hurts you and you don’t. What then?”

“I don’t know.”

“Ok. What happens when Tony, who warned you that it could happen, has to find you hurt….or worse? Hmm?”

“He’ll get to say I told you so. I don’t know,” he shrugged his shoulders as his voice rose higher in defensiveness, but even as he said it, he knew it wasn't true. Okay maybe a little, but it wouldn't be the first thing Mr. Stark would do. 

“Well, maybe until you do know,” Pepper added while standing up straight and reaching for her purse she’d placed on the opposite end of the counter. “Or at least admit that you do, you can cut Tony some slack for taking the suit? A suggestion, but an encouraged one. As for the rest of it, is any of it anything that your Aunt May never did?” 

In a stupor, he didn’t react when she hugged him quick and told him to, “think about it”. He didn’t even hear her leave and the headphones were still on the counter. 

——————

More colors tint the black sky in the distance and a glance of his watch tells him that it’s a good fourteen minutes into the new year and it doesn’t feel any different. He considered that it might, thought that if he attempted to at least see the fireworks from the rural parts of New York atop the Stark Tower his mind would somehow be convinced into thinking things would change. It’s why he’d forced himself outside a few minutes before midnight. He’d brought his headphones with him, the ones he hadn’t had the nerve to put on since Pepper had left him feeling a bit unnerved. He’d hated the sound of fireworks ever since Uncle Ben, the sound always reminding him of things he should hate instead of the things he shouldn’t. 

Now it’s sixteen minutes into the new year as he stalks the hands on his watch as they click forward in time and he’s still that same lonely, uncertain kid Aunt May left behind in the hospital on November 29th. 

He rips the headphones from his ears, pushing them down to rest around his neck and lets faint pops of pyrotechnics assault his ears. Uncle Ben, bleeding out in the street, flashes in between the streaks and sparks of celebration causing his stomach to twist. He rolls back away from the ledge and stumbles back into the tower before memories of Aunt May can find him, too. 

Something else catches up with him, instead. Hands catch him around his biceps as he sinks to the floor with the wall of the hallway at his back and he can only bring himself to look up as far as the black scruff along the jawline of the person crouching above him before squeezing his eyes shut. 

“Peter-what?”

He flinches, not because the voice is loud, but because in all the things running through his head it’s the last thing he deserves and it hurts. Hurts like he always imagined it would if he’d been the one to have an arc reactor in his chest and for a minute it feels like he might and it’s malfunctioning. He presses bony fingertips into his sternum trying to feel for the power core, and slams his head against the wall when they come up empty. 

“Hey, woah! Easy, kid. This place has been remodeled enough,” Mr. Stark says, his voice strained like maybe he too as the arc reactor back in his chest. Peter feels something a bit soft when he tries to drop his head against the wall again and when it moves just a bit he realizes it’s Mr. Stark’s hand. “And geez, you getting a concussion to match the dent in the wall the size of your head isn’t going to help my case any if CPS or whoever the hell shows up about all of this. Relax, alright?”

But he can’t, no matter how much he wants, too. His chest feels like it’s going to combust with whatever is swirling around in there. He shakes his head, trying to say he can’t where his words fail, but Mr. Stark doesn’t understand, says, “You have to. Just calm down.”

He shakes his head again, feels it bobble in the slight curve of the hand it’s cradled in. He reaches up, quivering fingers curling around stiff, expensive material and pulling the arm it incases until the hand at the back of his head is on his chest. He finds Mr. Stark’s face now, too scared not to look him in the eye anymore despite how mad they are at each other. 

The man nods, eyes a little wide with something Peter is too out of it to notice. “I know. I know, Peter! It’s panic, alright? It hurts, I get it. Christ I feel it, too! But it’ll stop if you just take a couple of deep breaths. It’ll all stop if you just calm down.”

Peter blinks up at him, trying his best to do as he says, because as much as he feels the man has been wrong about in the last few days, he needs him to be right about this. It takes several attempts, but eventually the pain diminishes to a dull ache that flares a bit when he can hear faint crackles of fireworks.  
He watches Mr. Stark fall back against the opposite wall, sinking down until his back is curved uncomfortably from where he’s half laying on the floor. “Christ, kid. I think I’d prefer you to have caught your arm on fire with a sparkler or something. You know, like the hazards they put in small print on the back of the kiddie packs of fireworks?” He runs a hand down his face and when he’s done he looks a tad bit older than he did before. 

He can’t bring himself to say anything, just breathes out into the quiet of the hallway until another chorus of thundering pyrotechnics wiggles the air around them. He shudders a bit, squeezing the ends of the long sleeves of the sweatshirt he’s wearing. 

“Yeah,” the older man agrees softly to something Peter must have missed. “I get that, too. C’mere.” Despite him commanding that of Peter, Mr. Stark drags himself across the short distance of the hallway separating them and reaches towards the headphones around Peter’s neck. He stiffens a bit defensively, but the genius doesn’t give any mind to it. Instead, he places the headphones back over Peter’s ears. 

Mr. Stark topples back once more to the opposite wall and pulls out his phone, taping away at the buttons until he glances back up at Peter expectantly. The boy blinks at him, unsure of what he’s supposed to do until he feels a slight vibration in his pocket. He hesitates before retrieving his own phone. When the screen lights up he has two texts from Ned and one from Mr. Stark.  
He feels nervous to open it, but taps it all the same. He swallows before reading: _Fireworks use to get to me, too. The whole Afghanistan thing. Don’t take those off until it’s daylight out._

 

He finds the courage to find Mr. Stark’s gaze again and feels relieved when he’s offered a small smile. He returns it, before burying himself in the silence again. Only this time, it lasts for a couple of minutes before Peter nudges the older man’s leg with his foot. “I’m looking forward to the second lecture of Moderation by Professor Stark.” 

If he yells it just a bit too loud, Mr. Stark doesn’t seem to mind. 

Not at all. 

 

——————

 

He made it through the new year without Ned, Pepper, or Mr. Stark actually wishing him a “Happy New Year” and after the fact he thinks that may have been what he was dreading the most about the holiday which had been why he was so determined to spend it alone. 

It’s two weeks later and things with Mr. Stark seem to have evened out. He’s made sure to limit his time using the Christmas gift the billionaire gave him and he’s yet to see Tony with even a finger of drink swirling at the bottom of a glass. They don’t mention the fight, nor do they apologize, but not for Peter’s lack of trying. Mr. Stark had all the right things to say or do when Peter brought it up so many times that eventually the kid took the hint and tried to let it go. _Tried._

School is starting back for everyone else tomorrow and last night Peter decided he wanted to join them despite having been given the all clear to stay out for as long as he needed as long as he kept up with the course material at home, or Stark Tower rather. He’s afraid to bring it up to Mr. Stark, nervous of him overreacting or not reacting at all. He hasn’t decided which would be worse by the time he finds him down in the workshop at half past four in the afternoon. 

“Mr. Stark?”

The man looks up from the Iron Man suit he’s working on, grease smudged all over his face and hair pointed in all directions and grins. “Hey, Pete.” 

Peter falters a bit at the shortened version of his name, a bit unsettled how the drop of one letter makes his name sound so different, but attempts to bounce into the room like he did way back when they were just mentor and slightly considered student. “Mr. Stark, hey, yeah, I was wondering….well, I wanted to ask you if-“ he fumbles through his words, thinking that the older man will cut him off with a quip, but he doesn’t. He just fiddles with the parts in his hands until Peter gets an actual sentence out he can respond to. “I want to go back to school tomorrow.”

Mr. Stark looks up at him from across the worktable, face slack and serious and not the least bit surprised….or at least not showing it. “Okay, if you’re sure that’s what you want. Give me…” he trails off glancing around for a clock until he seems to remember that he has a watch on. “Give me an hour to finish up here and take a quick shower and we’ll go get your supplies. Whatever you need. Do they still give you a list for that or what?”

Peter’s jaw comes a little unhinged. “Uh…no. I mean, yes they do. I-I have it, but I don’t need- We don’t need to go out and get the stuff now. I mean I decided last minute, I don’t think any of my teachers will mind on the first day-“

“It doesn't look good for a billionaire to send a kid to school without a few pencils and some paper and I feel I have some responsibility to prevent what I am sure you feel like is a terrible burden to ask a fellow classmate for some. Therefore, we’re going to get you some supplies and a few dozen backpacks unless you’d like me to design one that follows you around so you don’t lose it.”

“No! No, I’ll meet you upstairs at 6.”

——————

“Are you sure about this?”

“Are _you_ sure about this?”

“Get out of my car.”

“I think this is the part where you’re supposed to remember to give me lunch money and tell me not to let the bullies take it.”

“No, this is the part where I know you’d let the bullies take it because you feel bad for them, so I bypassed all of that by giving the money to the school directly so you always have the option to eat. Hey, even feed the bullies if you want to go about it that way.”

“Huh.” Peter says, pulling his backpack out from between his feet from the floorboard and putting it on his back. “I should’ve known your advice to prevent bullying is bribery.”

The older man shoves him as he opens the car door with feigned annoyance and a mantra of, “Out, out, out.” Peter leans back down to look through the window once the door is shut to give him a less than enthusiastic wave from someone who had the nerve to tease him a moment ago. “Hey, if …if it’s too much. That’s okay. Just call, alright?”

Peter nods and then turns to make his way into the school a bit less tense, but not by much.

—————

 

School is….normal. 

It’s honestly the most normal he’s felt since it happened. He still seems to be nonexistent to everyone but the few people he’s friends with and of course, Flash Thompson. 

At first, he thought it was going to be weird. Flash had approached their lockers as Ned and Peter switched out their books and just stared at them, mostly Peter. “Flash?” Peter had asked. ”Are you okay?” The boy’s eyebrows twitched and he huffed out a laugh. “Yeah, I’ve just been waiting a long time to do this,” Flash replied and reached out to knock Peter’s books in the floor. “ So I wanted to take the time to enjoy it. See you around, Penis Parker.” 

Why had he ever thought he missed that?

MJ had been her laid back self and Ned was as animated as ever. The teachers were extremely nice to him, but not as pitying as he thought they’d be considering how his former teachers reacted after Uncle Ben had died. He has a brief thought that maybe when Mr. Stark paid his lunch money he also did a little bit more, but it’s lost on him when the bell rings to start the last class of the day. 

He spends the next forty five minutes in dread, because after feeling normal all day like he can ignore the fact that he doesn’t have a home to go to in Queens or pretend that if he suddenly got sick the nurse would call Aunt May to come get him, it’s almost time to leave. 

When he’s at his locker, he’s moving at a snail’s pace to put his books up where they belong. He places them in order by his schedule, but then by their alphabetical title. Ned appears beside him with a relieved “Yes! First day back and no homework! What about you?”

“No, none. But you know, I might start on some of the stuff anyway to get ahead,” Peter replies, once again putting his books back in order by his schedule. 

“Right! For when Mr. Stark gives you your suit back so you don’t fall behind. You know when that’ll be?”

“I don’t know, now isn’t a really good time to ask him.”

“Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean to bring it up,” Ned offers while gently shutting his locker. “Hey! Wanna come over and play some video games?” 

“Yes!” Peter blurts, desperately grateful for something to prolong the inevitable. “S-sorry. I mean yeah. Sure. Cool.”

“Right on!” 

——————

He had sent Tony a brief text about being at Ned’s. Then an even briefer one when the man had sent one back asking how school was. Mr. Stark seemed to get the hint or was busy, because he didn’t reply until it was nearly nine o’clock. 

Ned, his mother, and Peter are gathered around the small table in the kitchen long since having eaten dinner talking about anything and everything. It reminds Peter of Aunt May, but somehow it doesn’t _hurt_. He wants to stay here forever. 

His phone vibrates against the table and he glances at it.

From Mr. Stark  
_F.R.I.D.A.Y. has a couple of glitches right now. Won’t tell me when you get back. You got an ETA?_

It’s not direct, but Peter knows what he is asking.

“Hey, Mom. Can Peter spend the night? Promise we’ll be on time for school.”

“Sure. Peter, I think you have some spare clothes from the last time you slept over. Ned knows where they are. Honey,” she then directs at her son, “help me clean up while he squares it with Ma- um, Mr. Stark, okay?”

Peter tries not to let all of it bother him, but he feels like his illusion is unravelling and quick. He shoots a quick text back at Mr.Stark letting him know he’s spending the night at Ned’s and that he’ll see him tomorrow before shoving his phone in his backpack and helping with the dishes. 

They played video games on into the night after Ned’s mom left for a second shift only turning it off when they have about four hours until they have to be up for school. Once he’s laid down on the air mattress by his friend’s bed does he remember his headphones. The ones he’s slept with every night since receiving them. He tries to go to sleep, but then thinks better of it and forces himself to stay awake instead. 

But then he hears Ned’s mother come in, hears her drop the keys by the door, shuffle out of her coat, and hiss a curse when she trips on Ned’s backpack in the floor. For a minute he let’s himself believe it’s Aunt May, that she’ll open his bedroom door and tiptoe over to kiss his forehead and smooth out the covers despite the fact that he’s in high school.  
The door opens and his heart soars. Except Ned’s mother is short and round where Aunt May was a bit taller and lanky and she only opens the door to turn off the TV they had left on from before. She must hear him bite a sob into the pillow under his head because she lets out a pitying, “Oh, dear,” before rushing over to him. She pushes her hand through his hair the wrong way and whispers all the wrong things. 

He pulls away from her, and is surprised to find that it’s not because she isn’t Aunt May, but because she isn’t Mr. Stark. “I-I…have to go _home_!”

He nearly chokes on the word because he’s never called the tower that. Ever. It scares him and makes him sick, but it also makes him feel like the unraveling of the world around him will somehow stop if only he can get there before it reaches an end. 

 

——————

He doesn’t know what he’s going to do when the elevator doors open, but when he stumbles out into the living room in the tower he finds that he doesn’t have to decide. Mr. Stark is standing there looking like he’s never went to bed tonight, or any night in the month of January, and tugs him forward to hold him at arm’s length. “Peter- Ned’s mom called. She…she said-“

Peter squirms at Mr. Stark’s stumbling speech, because the man is never this unsure of what to say and it kills him, because he needs somebody to be sure of how to deal with everything that’s caving in on him. 

“Here, come here,” the older man says, pulling him along through parts of the tower collecting a couple of things before guiding him back to the elevator. Peter is so desperate that he doesn’t even question it. 

It’s a few minutes later when they’re both standing on top of Stark Tower, the biting winter cold blowing against them and turning their exposed skin red, that Mr. Stark pushes an empty scotch tumbler into Peter’s underage hand. 

“Um…” Peter says, trying to give the glass back. 

“No.” Mr. Stark says, nudging the arm back in place and uncapping a bottle of what is sure to be expensive scotch. He pours a little bit in Peter’s, double that in his own and caps it back before setting it to the side on the ledge. He clinks their glasses together before bringing it up to his mouth, but stops short when glancing back at Peter. “Look, I’m not- I don’t know how….. I don’t know how to do this,” he says and gestures between them. “Be a pare- be what you need. But I’m going to figure it out. We’re going to figure it out. Just as soon as I screw it up a few more hundred times. The first of which me being letting you drink scotch at fifteen.” 

Peter blinks at him then hurriedly taps his glass against Mr. Stark’s before the man can take the drink back and downing the drink in one go. He gags as he swallows and coughs over the older man’s snickers. 

“But then, it should persuade you not to want to do it again.”

“God, why do you drink that stuff?! It’s disgusting!”

“Maybe. It’s an acquired taste really. Some of the effects of it are fun. All in _moderation_ mind you. That’s important to note.”

“I…I don’t think I can get drunk, Mr. Stark. Not! Not that I’ve tried, but it makes sense with everything else about the…about the bite. You know?”

Mr. Stark takes the empty glass back and sets it on the ledge, downing the rest of his own drink and placing that glass there, too. “Yes, I know. I’m never letting you find out either. Well, at least not now. Maybe when you’re older, much older. Anyway, that part was just for me, really. Sorry,” he apologizes, but Peter doesn’t think he really means it considering he’s still laughing quietly. 

“This,” he continues, pulling the headphones he made for Peter from seemingly out of nowhere and placing them on his own ears, “is for you.”

Peter stares at him, unsure of what he means. “Mr. Stark, wha-” he yells, as the man takes the headphones off. “Oh, sorry, but what-“

“Right, nearly forgot. See I’m going to put these on and you’re going to stand here and scream.” At Peter’s horrified look, he laughs again. “Relax, think of it as a…..stress reducing exercise. I’ve tried it a few times and I swear by it.” Mr. Stark holds his hand up in a swearing gesture before placing the headphones back over his ears. “Go on, Spiderling. Scream away.”

And he does. He tilts his head back and screams up into the sky. Just one gut wrenching sound that he’s glad that Mr. Stark can’t hear. He does it again and again, until his face is red from effort instead of the cold. He only stops when his voice catches because of the frigid air rushing in through his windpipe when he drags in deep breaths. He turns to Mr. Stark, shocked to see the headphones laying by the scotch rather than over his ears, thinks he should probably feel guilty about the saddened look on the older man’s face, but finds that he feels….. _good_. 

Mr. Starks comes to stand shoulder to shoulder with him and for a few seconds they just stand there. Peter thinks he should say something, explain everything he’s felt the past few days, weeks, but suddenly Mr. Stark tilts his head back and yells out into the air the way Peter had done. 

He only does it once before glancing back at Peter. He smiles at him, genuine and understanding of all the things they still haven't said, patient for all the things they probably won’t. Peter smiles back, pliant when Mr. Stark’s arm drops around his shoulders, and eager to join him in screaming into the night once again.

It’s there on the roof, sixteen days into the new year, that Peter realizes maybe it isn’t so much about celebrating hope for new beginnings as it is learning how to make them. 

And for the first time in a long time, he thinks maybe, _just maybe_ , he and Mr. Stark have started to figure it out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all of the love you've given this little story of mine!
> 
> Until the next chapter, check out the song Ends of the Earth by Lord Huron. It's the song I listened to to wrap up this chapter. :)


	3. February

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The love you all have given this story has been more than I could ever have hoped.  
> I can't thank you enough!

The warm, champagne glow of the lights glides across the fine-finished mahogany double doors as they’re opened. The quiet murmur they’d contained moments before bursts out into the hallway and Peter believes if Mr. Stark’s hand hadn’t been on his shoulder he would’ve stumbled back from the impact. Women in dresses glistening as much as the overhanging crystal chandeliers and men in suits a touch less expensive than the material Peter has been tailored into scatter around the expansive ballroom talking, laughing (or pretending to), and dancing to the soft conversation the jazz band off in the corner creates with their instruments. 

It’s a lively scene, the most Peter has been apart of even back before the end of November, and he finds himself tugging at the pressed white collar digging into his neck. He hears Mr. Stark give a soft chuckle from beside him, his spider senses allowing him to pick it up over everything else. He drops his hand, worried that if the billionaire is poking fun at him the other people in the room will eat him alive for whatever he’s doing wrong. He side-eyes him, trying to gauge the older man’s actions in hopes of scotching the disapproving looks down up turned noses he’s certain to receive. The man catches his gaze with _almost_ the same approval that his aunt and uncle use to give that it forces Peter to provide his own bow tie an embarrassed adjustment. 

“It’s fine as long as you stop messing with it,” Mr. Stark comments with one side of his mouth doing a quick curve upwards. 

“It doesn’t feel fine,” Peter mumbles while turning his head experimentally. 

The other side of Mr. Stark’s mouth curves to even out the other. “It’s a bow tie, Peter, not a neck brace. Just act natural.”

“Okay, well maybe you should think about that when you’re tying one. This thing is choking me,” he leans closer to the man standing at his side so he can whisper-yell his displeasure. “And natural is not wearing one of these to begin with.”

A man in an unfortunate burgundy vest with shimmering paisley print of the same hue gestures them into the ballroom. Mr. Stark nods while ushering a reluctant Peter forward causing the boy to nearly end up stepping on the billionaire’s finely shined shoes. “Learn to adapt, kid.”

Peter knows that it’s supposed to be an encouragement, knows that all the important things that Mr. Stark has to say come with a physicality whether it be the signing of the Stark name or a squeeze of the shoulder. Yet, when he feels the weight of the man’s hand recede from the stitched seem on the top of his suit jacket and the words finally sink in, it feels more like a sharp slap to the face. 

Peter’s entire life has unfolded in the practice of adaptation and being told otherwise gives him reason to pull away from Mr. Stark. “I’m fine,” he says as sure of the fact as he can be. An odd look passes over the mechanic’s face, one that maybe he hadn’t meant to show considering how quickly he masks it when a woman in a long, silk dress waltzes over. She shouts, “Tony!” as if the emerald green of her gown or the way the garment barely contains her cleavage wasn’t enough to gain the man’s attention. It doesn’t capture Peter’s though, not entirely. He’s too preoccupied searching for the man he came with, because he’s disappeared. 

Make no mistake, Mr. Stark isn’t a Houdini or a Romanoff, but here and now Peter believes he’s better than the both of them combined. He’s still standing in the same place, yet Peter does not recognize him. This isn’t the man he rode in the car with, or the one who helped him tie his bow tie before they left the tower. Not the one that promised that Happy was outside with the car if at any point Peter wanted to leave, and definitely not the man that signed on the dotted line to be his guardian when the state of New York attempted to put him into foster care the day after his aunt died. 

His lungs can’t seem to get enough air while the members of the jazz band up on stage seem to have too much of it. Their quick tempo floods his ears, stays there like a trapped moth batting its wings against his eardrums. The mouths above him move off beat, the woman’s stained red lips too close to Tony’s for Peter to be able to read what he’s saying to her. 

His fingers twitch, trying to find a pace somewhere, somehow until they can’t and he raises them to pull at his ears instead. It must catch the attention of the woman pressing her body up against Mr. Stark, but he doesn’t understand why. He’s been around the billionaire long enough to know that anyone in Mr. Stark’s orbit rarely breaches the circle of light that comes with the man’s fame. He should be no different. 

But he is. He always is. Always has been different. 

“Peter.” His name cuts through everything, because he hadn’t expected to be addressed by it by people with names worth more than the little sum of money Uncle Ben and Aunt May had saved to send him to college with. “Peter.”

When he hears his name again, it grounds him. It pushes back the concert music to a volume close to what plays from Captain Roger’s record player in his room at the compound and he finds himself wishing he were there instead of here. 

“Hey, you with me?” Peter blinks and finds himself face to face with Mr. Stark, _his_ Mr. Stark, and swallows hard against the thought of having any claim of the billionaire in front of him. “Peter? Say something.” 

“Y-yeah. Sorry, I-I just…,” he trails off, catching sight of diamonds shining in the light somewhere around the older man’s side. Tracing the shine, he finds the arm of the woman in the green dress snaked around Mr. Stark’s possessively. He follows the tanned-skin, slender expanse of her arm up until he can finally see her face. She’s pretty everywhere Pepper isn’t and Peter has a hard time finding a flaw with Pepper, inside and out. “I’ve never been to such a…f-fancy-“ he cuts himself off when he notices the woman’s mouth turn into a snide grin. “I-I mean exquisite party before. S-sorry, I’ll just um…” 

He looks to Mr. Stark hoping the man will tell him what to do, but the woman wraps her arms around the older man and tugs him close. “My,my, Mr.Tony Stark, he is adorable!” The billionaire smiles at her as he sips on a glass of champagne that Peter doesn’t remember seeing him order. They stumble a bit together as the woman keeps latched onto him and says, “It’s so nice of you to help him the way you are. I honestly couldn’t believe it when I heard you give the press conference a few months ago, but I can see why you would want to sharpen him up.”

Peter feels the blood that had rushed up into his face and ears moments ago drain as quickly as it came, because _Tony Stark_ was in front of him. The man he’d heard about on news stations and in celebrity magazines, the man of all the rumors that spread amongst the people who are unqualified to understand how his brain works or unable to stand in his orbit. The billionaire playboy with a penchant for alcohol and grandiose gestures without a care for who they affect. 

Peter has always hated those people for forcing that kind of reputation on a man that they didn’t even know. When he was seven, he knew without a shadow of a doubt that Iron Man and Mr. Stark were more than whatever the latest tabloid said he was, more than what Uncle Ben mumbled he was when Peter rambled on and on about how much he wanted to be like Mr. Stark when he grew up and _no one_ else. 

But here he is at fifteen, standing in front of the man he took more time admiring than he did the man that raised him and he knows he was wrong, knows that he was just another person unqualified and unable to truly understand Tony Stark. 

He starts to back away, but Tony untangles himself from the woman with a wiggle of eyebrows promising her something more later on and then turns his attention to him. The man’s hand reaches out for Peter’s shoulder, but he jerks back instead. Tony’s face gets that weird look again, the one he’d masked earlier, but it stays there on display for Peter, and Peter only, as he tilts sideways just a touch to be eye level with him. 

There’s a part of Peter that knows he’s being unfair, irrational even, but it’s so far buried underneath everything else that all he can think of is how much he hates _this_. 

“I’ll….I need to go to the restroom. Excuse me.”

—————

_Two Hours Earlier_

Tony had been nervous, nerve-wracked actually, by the time he found Peter sitting outside on the landing pad doing his homework. So much so, that he had decided to just go back inside but a gust of wind stole one of Peter’s papers and it raced in his direction. The kid turned around to make chase of it, but stopped when he saw Tony reaching down to pick it up from where he’d trapped it with his shoe. 

“Oh, thanks Mr. Stark! That has all my equations on it for calculus. I don’t need to write them out to solve the problems, but Mr. Picklesimer won’t accept any assignments without us showing our work.”

“I still can’t believe you have a teacher named Mr. Picklesimer. Are you sure you didn’t just make that up? Like it’s a foreign name and you and your friends just can’t pronounce it?” Tony asked, holding out the paper to Peter after skimming over it. 

“No, it’s his real name,” Peter laughed quietly while tucking the paper in his math book and shoving that in his backpack. “He’s quite proud of it, actually. Something about his Dutch ancestors making barrels or something, I’m not really sure. Hopefully, they were barreling pickles, otherwise that’s just silly.”

“Yes, that’s what makes that name so _silly_ ,” Tony mocked him fondly. “Anyway, it’s about that time and in order to be fashionably late… need to leave in an hour.” He purposely skipped over the pronoun on the last part and hoped Peter hadn’t noticed, but of course the kid had. 

“I….I’ll go, Mr. Stark.”

“You don’t have to. I’m not being….pushy.” _Or controlling_ , he thought to himself with Pepper’s latest tirade in the back of his mind. “I just thought you might like to tag along instead of being cooped up here.” 

Peter glanced over his shoulder at the expansive view of New York and then back to Tony. “I…I don’t think this,” he said, tossing his arms out to gesture around him “is considered cooping, but I..I still want to go with you.” 

“Yeah, okay.”

So he’d hurried him to get dressed, tossed him some gel to slick down the curls in his hair, and told Happy to help him with his bow tie after learning the kid had never tied one. Tony had watched from afar as he put on his cufflinks and felt a bit of _something_ where the arc reactor used to be when Happy reached for the material around Peter’s neck as the kid drooped helplessly in the armchair in the corner. 

“No, no. Never mind Happy, I’ll do it. You probably tie how Wikihow tells you.”

“Not true, Sir. I’ve even mastered the twisted knot.”

“Not in front of the kid, Happy.” Tony smacked the man’s arm with a wicked grin, delighting in an outright laugh when it took Happy a few more seconds than it should have to understand the sexual joke. 

“I’ll be out front waiting,” Happy groused. 

Tony felt the laugh lines in his face pull tight, refusing to let loose even when he reached for Peter’s hanging bow tie. He shuffled the material around and underneath the shirt collar for no other reason than to stretch out the moment, trying to rid his mind of all the memories he wished he had of his father doing this with him. He gave a soft chuckle between them when Peter’s neck kept moving with every nervous swallow. “My nanny taught me how to tie these.”

He doesn’t know why he said it, but Peter stilled, Adam’s apple and all, so Tony kept going. Well, sort of. “Sang a song and everything. I’ll spare your sensitive spider ears. Not because my singing is bad. I have the voice of an angel. The song’s terrible. But,” he stopped short to wiggle his finished work into place, “I know the art of bow tying because of it.”

“That’s..that’s c-cool, Mr. Stark. Thanks,” Peter supplied, giving it an experimental tug and failing to hide how uncomfortable he was in it. The kid started to walk out of the room, but Tony lightly smacked his arm with the back of his hand. 

“Hey, where do you think you’re going? You’ve tied no bow tie. Lesson isn’t over, get back here, James Bond. God, you’re so not Bond. More like….Agent Q.”

“I don’t think he wears a bow tie,” Peter countered as he dragged himself back over to the arm chair. 

“Precisely the point. Now, nuh-uh,” Tony shooed the kid away from plopping down in the chair and sat there himself. Peter awkwardly stood where Tony maneuvered him to stand directly in front of the chair. “You’re going to tie mine.”

“But why does James Bond need Agent Q to tie his bow tie?”

“Woah, hold up. I’m not James Bond in this analogy.”

“Then who are you?”

“I’m me. I mean really, I’m way more badass than Bond.” 

“U-um, okay, Mr. Stark, but I…I don’t know how to tie this,” Peter fumbled with the material in his hands, anxious in the way that Tony used to be when he couldn’t quite tell if his father was teasing or testing him. 

“Which is _why_ you’re going to learn while tying mine,” Tony explained as if he’d said it a million times. Peter’s eyes nearly bugged out of his head. 

—————

Tony gives his bow tie a quick once over with his fingers at the memory from earlier in the evening while letting his ribs take the brunt of his weight against the side of the bar top. There’s an empty seat at the end, but he fears that if he stays in one place too long he’ll be caught in another brain-deadening conversation, and he really needs to find Peter. 

He gives the bartender a desperate wave and is rewarded with a concoction that he knocks back in seconds. He tosses a bill he doesn’t bother to check at the working man and turns around to scan the crowd. He sees Celia on the arm of another man already, the old gentleman’s fingers tugging at the edges of her green dress as she giggles. 

“Jealous?”

Pepper’s voice cuts through to him more quickly than the drink he’d been served mere moments ago. 

“I am,” he admits eyeing the size of the drink in her hand. “That’s more alcohol than I’ve had this week.”

“Me drinking you under the table? Never thought I’d see the day,” she teases, but let’s her face go soft in the way that Tony’s never been able to look away from. “But I’m glad I have. It’s…a good look for you.”

He doesn’t know what to say, can never say all the right things to the only woman who deserves to hear them and so she gives that warm laugh of hers and straightens her thin shoulders. “Well, speaking of, where is Peter? I thought you said he was coming?”

“Yeah! He’s here,” Tony assures, a bit too quick he realizes so he leans back against the bar. “Somewhere.”

“You lost him?”

“He’s fifteen. I didn’t lose him. He said he had to take a piss or something. Honestly, he’s probably getting off in there after seeing all this fake cleavage around.”

“Tony! God!” Pepper yells at him and smacks him with her clutch. “Don’t say things like that about him. It’s just… not right. Seriously, go find him.”

“Here’s a thought, why don’t you go find him,” Tony suggests, deciding to give another wave to the bartender as he turns around to lean his arm on the bar. 

“After what you just told me, why would I want to? Not that I believe that Peter is doing that mind you- oh my God why did you even have to say that- but why are you suggesting that I do?” Pepper inquires while sitting down on the stool that just became vacant beside them.

“Oh, no reason.” The drink in his hand feels too heavy when it’s slid across the bar at him so he drums his fingers against the glass idly playing with the condensation on the sides. Pepper’s hand finds the glass without her eyes leaving his face, her fingers slotting perfectly in the space of his twitching ones. She tugs the glass away from him with no strength at all as if she knows he’ll give it up without a fight. She shouldn’t expect that though, because he never bowed out of a drink for her before. 

“What’s going on, Tony?” Her voice is soft, but it hits him hard. Hits him right where it hurt every time he ever did wrong by her, because he’s somehow doing it again.

“I…I think he’s avoiding me. Peter. He just…freaked out or something when we got here. He popped up every once in a while, but every time I managed to free myself from the plastic society I couldn’t find him.”

“What did you do?”

“Other than pretend to like these people for the advancement of my company, nothing.”

She sighs, and her shoulders droop with an exhaustion she shouldn’t have. “Did you talk to him about this before you came?”

“About the party? No, I blindfolded him and brought him here. Hazing, initiation, all that of that. Yes, of course I did. He said he wanted to come.”

“No, not the party. I’m talking about _Tony at the party_. He’s never really been around for that side of you.”

“What am I? Jekyll and Hyde?”

“To a kid who needs some stability in his life? Yes.”

Tony’s face pales at what feels like the speed of a droplet of water running down the side of his glass in Pepper’s hand. 

“Tony, just go find him and talk to him.”

“Well, maybe you could find him before I-“

“He’s your kid, Tony. Not mine,” her tall frame towers over him as she stands and gives him that look that they both know means that he’s upset her but doesn’t know how. He pulls his discarded drink towards him as she walks away. He wants to drink it, wants it like he’s doesn’t remember wanting anything more. 

But he pushes the drink away and leaves it sitting there like room temperature tap water because he needs to find Peter. 

——————

The fluorescent light of the bathroom seems to magnify every problem Peter feels on his skin, makes it so that the elderly man standing at the sinks looking at him in the mirror like he’s taking up valuable space knows that he didn’t save his uncle or take better care of his aunt, knows that he worshiped a man he didn’t know over the one that knew him best. He rushes to the last stall, slamming the door with as much force as he can without using his enhanced strength. He twists the lock in place, tugs at it a couple of times to make sure the door won’t betray him before falling back against the cold tile and melting to the floor. 

His suit isn’t meant for a kid as broken as he is so it creases in all the wrong places as he folds in on himself. The bow tie suffocates him when he rests his head on his bent knees. Clawing at the material, his fingers try to undo it and everything else that led him to this moment. His efforts are fruitless until he rips the tie into pieces and it’s laying in his hands. His breaths come easier, but they are harder to give away. 

His eyes water freely, race down his cheeks until they soak the rim of his collar like a victory lap. He doesn’t understand why he’s crying until he hears the elderly man in the bathroom exit and he’s left alone. He knows that’s how it should be, knows that he can’t possibly deserve another person in his life when he has rid himself of every single one that’s been there before. But it hurts somewhere deep in his chest he didn’t know it could hurt and he slams his fist into the door, because why didn’t he feel this when his parents died, or Uncle Ben, or Aunt May? 

He punches the door again, unsure if it’s the stall door that’s starting to give way or the bones in his hand, so he keeps on pummeling it until he can be sure. A fire suddenly erupts in his hand and up through his arm and he pulls it to his chest to keep it all to himself, to keep the destruction from reaching anyone else. 

He doesn’t know how long he sits there, long enough though that his cheeks are crusted and the chill from the wall has sunken into his bones. The door opens with a quiet swish of air that glides across the marble floor. The footsteps that follow aren’t nearly as graceful and there’s a metallic click to their pace. 

“Um, Peter? Are you in here?”

The boy sucks in a breath and folds into himself as much as his tuxedo and throbbing hand will allow, because _no_. 

“Peter, it’s Rhodes. Tony’s looking for you.”

 _Tony._ Why on Earth would that man be looking for him? Peter feels anger start to curl his stinging fingers and chokes down the cry or yell trying to bubble up out of his throat. His anger is misplaced, he _knows_ , but he’s in too many pieces to try and pin it on himself where it belongs. 

Rhodes is standing just outside his door, black braces on his legs casting a shiny reflection on the marble he stands on. “I’m going to sit if you don’t mind. I could use a break, too.” The Colonel’s legs stretch out against the floor with a slight squeak and long sigh. “Hard isn’t it?”

Peter stares at the braces on the man’s legs underneath the door between them while hugging his own. He remembers feeling sick when he’d heard about Colonel Rhodes’ injury after the fight at the hanger in Germany, but now he just feels numb. It feels like none of it matters because the man may have lost something then but he has it now. It just isn’t fair, because everything Peter has lost he’ll never get back. 

“It’s just for show, kid.”

And Peter feels nauseous again, can’t believe that he ever pitied this man. 

“Tony, I mean,” and _oh_ , he’s talking about Mr. Stark. “The celebrity persona and all of it, just isn’t him, is it?” Rhodes’ voice settles around the spacious bathroom like the way the sound of water pouring into a sink does. Peter leans his head back against the tile and closes his eyes. “It used to be. Back before what happened to him in Afghanistan.”

Peter’s eyes open before he can decide that’s what he wants to do, because he’s heard the stories, but not the details. “It….changed him, Peter. Not all of him, but….enough. Peter? Are you listening?”

He wishes he wasn’t but, “Yeah.”

“He’s still….Mr. Stark,” and the way Rhodes says that name like it only belongs to Peter and he needs permission to say it makes the boy shuffle away from the door between them as if that isn’t enough. He hears the implication, _feels_ it being tied to him in a way that Uncle Ben and Aunt May were when they had already decided against having children. “He’s just got to be something different for all these people than what he is for you. For us.”

Peter leans his head against the porcelain rim of the toilet, unfazed by what could be on the surface because he’s already sick. 

Another gust of cold air blows across the floor with the swinging of the entrance door.  
“Rhodey?”

Peter shoves himself in between the toilet and the wall, rests his arm on the rim before burying his head back down in the crease of his elbow. There’s the slide of leg braces against marble and dancing shadows of movement accompanied by whispers he can’t decipher on account of the water rushing in the pipes from a flush in the ladies room on the opposite side of the wall. 

There’s another swing of the door that feels like it takes all of the air out instead of letting more in and a soft click of a lock before a tentative, “Peter?” escapes out into the room. 

He doesn’t know how to answer, doesn’t know if he should answer to that name because he doesn’t want to be that kid anymore, the one with dead parents and dead everything that comes into his life. But he’s trapped in here, in the bathroom, in this life and his name is only thing that seems to free him from everything in his head. 

“Y-yeah?”

“Is….” Mr. Stark’s voice is faint, whispering where it used to dominate the air. Peter can see the tips of his shoes come to stand just before the door as if he knows that it’s a line he shouldn’t cross. “Is there anything I can do?” He may not cross the line, but he leans against it, dropping his head against the door so it muffles his voice that much more. 

Peter used to believe there wasn’t anything Mr. Stark couldn’t do, and it’s not fair to think otherwise but, “I….I d-don’t know.”

Silence coats the air thick like a smog you shouldn’t breathe in. 

“Let me try.” Peter doesn’t understand how his lack of faith equals to the desperation in Mr. Stark’s voice. He can solve any equation in his head, but this one. “Please.”

—————

He doesn’t really know how they got here. One minute he’s pulling a fifteen year old kid from a bathroom stall and the next he’s sitting across from him at the dingiest diner they could find at eleven thirty at night. 

The buzz from the neon sign on the window is a constant current of noise underneath the sizzle of the grill back behind the counter. The blinking red light of the open sign casts shadows across Peter’s wrinkled, white dress shirt in a rhythm competing against the soft rock playing on the jukebox at the end of the establishment. The boy across from him fiddles with the paper wrapper of his straw, folding it and unfolding it, then ripping it into tiny little pieces before scooting the pile of shavings off to the end of the table near the wall. One of the morsels gets stuck on his arm where his sleeves are rolled up near to his elbows and he brushes it off with his bruised - not broken thanks to enhanced healing- hand, watching it float down to land on his jacket waded up in the booth. He lets it stay there. 

“What can I get you, darlin’?” Tony doesn’t need to smell the cigarette smoke clinging to the waitress to know she’s a smoker. Her voice is rough and nearly hoarse, but she’s smiling softly at Peter like he’s the twelve year old kid that he looks while dragging up a chair to the end of their booth. She sits down, cautious of her aged and aching joints, tired in a way that Howard never displayed publicly. She gives Peter her full attention, pointing out specials on the menu that she likes herself and it’s so kind that it has Peter grinning shyly up at her like if she’s ever in trouble, or just needs help with her groceries, he’ll be there in the full Spider-Man get up to help her. 

Tony feels a smile in his mouth, but he doesn’t want to show it, afraid that somehow he’ll steal this woman’s attention away from the kid. Sinking back into his side of the booth, he drapes an arm across the back and watches as the waitress somehow gets Peter to agree to the double burger and cheese fries even though he still looks green, and asks her if he can have extra pickles. A part of him stores that away for later, like something he’d ask F.R.I.D.A.Y. to do, and contemplates if Howard were standing right here, right now, if he’d know what Tony likes on his burger or not. 

The waitress, Marge according to her name tag, says, “Sure thing, sugar,” as she twists in her chair in Tony’s direction. She’s still looking down at her notepad, scribbling the symbol that means extra pickles when she adds, “And what about you, Stark?”

Tony shouldn’t be surprised, this woman is the epitome of eyes-in-the-back-of-your-head. Peter glances up at him a bit worried for reasons Tony doesn’t understand, and he wonders if he would understand if his father had ever brought him here like he’d always silently hoped that he would. Just the two of them. Father and son. 

He grins at her, says he’ll have the same exact thing even though he finds the taste of pickles nauseating, but he thinks maybe that’s the right thing to do, thinks he would have liked to have his father agree to whatever he picked for dinner just once. 

“And can you get us two large milkshakes? Peter, what flavor do you want?”

The kid does that nervous stuttering thing where sounds come out but nothing actually makes sense so Tony orders one of each three classic flavors so he’ll stop. Marge stares at Tony long and hard before writing it down and walking away. Only when she’s done pushing her chair back to the table it belonged to, does Tony turn his attention back to Peter. 

“M-Mr. Stark…that’s..that’s unnecessary, I’m really not that hungr-“

“No sweat. Drink it if you want it,” he waves him off, but then crosses his arms on the table and leans his weight against them. Peter is pale and his hair is damp with a nervous sweat that shouldn’t be there, and maybe Tony is going about this all wrong. Maybe it’s not enough to do all the things Howard never did. “That just means you’ll have to answer all of my questions.”

“Um…uh, ha w-what do, what do you mean?” Peter asks, crossing his arms nervously, but not leaning on the tabletop.

Rain starts to tap against the window, washing away the dirt of the city that had gathered there throughout the day and Tony wishes it would wash away the last few seconds, or maybe everything from his day. He wants to turn and look at it, wants to pretend like none of this is happening like Peter seems to be doing as he stares at the droplets running down the length of the window to gather at the bottom of the frame. But he knows, _knows _what that means, what that does to a person and when Peter had caught a glimpse of it at the party, saw the remnants of the _Tony after-his-parents-died Stark_ , he freaked out. __

__“I mean…. - used to do play this game, well…wasn’t really a game she always let me win as some sort of reversed psychology mind trick to get me talking, but we’d used to do this thing where whoever finished their milkshake first got to ask any three questions they wanted. No matter what it was, and the other had to answer with nothing but honesty.”_ _

__He knows he left out her name, her title, because somehow it feels like he shouldn’t share it, shouldn't let it out in the open of a dingy diner to roam free._ _

__“Who?”_ _

__Tony blinks at Peter, wondering if it’s okay to let this kid have more memories of people already gone, but for the first time in a long time it feels like she isn’t, like she’s right here beside him. There’s a weight in his chest that comes with it, one that he has to fight against to take a breath, but if he can manage it she might stay. She might sit with them, listen to Peter and know how smart he is, how his heart is as big as hers. She won’t care that the kid’s name isn’t Stark, or that he doesn’t resemble Tony or, God forbid Howard. She won’t care that she never got to hold him as a baby, or drop him off at school, or pick him up from the nurse's office when he got sick. She won’t care, because she’ll see how much he means to Tony without any of it, and Peter will mean that much to her, too._ _

__He wants her to be here, wants Peter to have proof that there’s some good in Tony somewhere and it all came from her. “My mom.”_ _

__Peter nods, takes in that revelation like he can see her, too. “O-okay. We can do that.”_ _

__Marge drops off the milkshakes like they weigh nothing even though they are thick and bubbling over the rim. Tony chooses a chocolate one out of the six between them, tugs it to him like he has less muscle mass than Marge because it feels like a metric ton due to everything that’s about to come with it._ _

__By the time Peter decides on strawberry flavor, Tony isn’t sure if he wants to win or lose but when the kid sticks three straws in the top of his milkshake Tony goes for a single one and sips slowly when Peter says go._ _

__Peter’s face is scrunched in pain at the freeze-brain award for first place, but he’s doing an odd little combination of laughing and groaning that pulls at the laugh lines of the older man’s face._ _

__“Alright, Frosty,” he chuckles while pushing the empty glasses to the end of the table for Marge. “Let’s have them. First question.”_ _

__Peter does a mantra of okays while rubbing out the last of his headache, but when it’s gone he realizes he hasn’t thought of a question. “Um….alright…well… how about -“_ _

__“Nope. Stop,” Tony says, even though he wants the kid to waste one, wants it to be something silly like if he prefers chocolate milkshakes over strawberry, but his mother never let him do that so he can’t either. “Take your time. It has to be a good one. Don’t waste it. Anything, kid.”_ _

__Peter gets a little more doe-eyed which Tony didn’t think was possible, and stays silent until Marge brings their food. The older man eats a bit quicker than usual, hoping to avoid a big flavor of pickles and also because he knows if Peter asks the right questions he probably won’t be hungry afterwards._ _

__Meanwhile, Peter nudges his fries around. He mops up cheese with one only to spread it on another and by the time Tony gets ready to tell him to eat or his questions are revoked he pops one in his mouth and says, “Alright M-Mr. Stark, I got one.”_ _

__Tony nods him on, trying to swallow before it comes._ _

__

__“Does…does it bother you….that people think that you’re…just, you know _Tony Stark_? Like they don’t get this,” Peter gestures between them,” side of you so they just think you’re that guy at the party with the girls and drinks and stuff?”_ _

__Tony had expected something Stark-family related, hell his beef with Captain America related, or honestly, Afghanistan. Not this. He takes another bite of his burger, a big slice of pickle taking away the cheese, and finds himself….satisfied. “I’m going to answer you honestly, but I need clarification from you before I can. Is that okay? Otherwise, you can ask another, have a redo.”_ _

__“N-no, it’s fine. Go on.”_ _

__  
“Does it bother _you_?” Peter tenses like maybe he shouldn’t be allowed that question without having finished his milkshake first, but then throws two fries into his mouth drenched in ketchup and cheese.  


__“Yeah. I mean, it did at first. Like when I was kid and stuff, but now…I get it. I just…I’m not a fan of that Tony Stark t-to be honest.”_ _

____

__Tony nods, considers the fact that he didn’t even need to win the advantage for this kid to be so honest with him and thinks maybe he’s doing something right to prevent this kid from becoming him. “It doesn’t bother me. The tabloids and all that stuff, after a certain point it just becomes entertaining. They love it, too, or they wouldn’t talk about me so much.”_ _

____

__Peter nods, twisting his brows together to think of another question because that’s as much of an honest answer as he expected. The older man drops his burger on his plate and wipes his hands on a napkin. “But what would bother me, is if Rhodey, or Pep, or …or Cap or any of those guys thought that that’s all I was. There was a time they did, and I was, but I….proved them wrong. It took a long time, and it was not easy on my part because I’m…I’m a little messed up from a lot of things, and sometimes maybe they forget, or sometimes I do, too. But Peter?”_ _

____

__The boy’s gaze is guarded as if he somehow knows that Tony sat here years ago and asked his mother the exact same question, knows that his father never proved to Tony that he was anything more that the great Howard Stark that would be in history books. Tony thinks maybe his mother had lied then, and only once, to spare him the disappointment or the pain she never really knew the amount of inside of him. He doesn’t want that for Peter, doesn’t want to tell him things that only spare him in this moment and not the next._ _

____

__He has a hard time finding the words, because even though he knew what he wanted his mother to tell him back then, he’s lived a life of far greater troubles to still want the same thing now._ _

____

__“I-I know you’re not, Mr. Stark,” Peter assures, even though Tony hasn’t said anything else. “It just…I wasn’t expecting it is all and then, one thing led to another and I-I freaked out…I do that..a lot kind of because well…. Mr. Stark?”_ _

____

__“Hmm?” And that’s all Tony can say because he can’t fathom how Peter came to be his, how he’s the only person left to hold this kid together in a world falling apart._ _

____

__“I….I’m a little messed up from a lot of things, too.”_ _

____


	4. March

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The love you've shown this story is beyond anything I imagined! Thank you and apologies for the wait!

The waxing crescent moon hangs in between the trees lining the highway offering a point of reference to a destination unknown. As he drives up U.S. Route 9 headed North through the state of New York, the roar of the 1970’s Ford Mustang engine thrums under Tony’s loose hand on the wheel.

He catches the turn of the clock move into the hours of the next day while reaching down to fiddle with the FM dial and spares a glance at his passenger. With his head cradled by the seatbelt that curves under the weight, Peter’s neck rests at an awkward angle and his jaw is slack with a deep sleep that set in about a hundred miles back when they had encountered a traffic jam on Interstate 87. The kid had groaned at the sea of brake lights and shrunk down in his seat with the impatience of a teenager mumbling a “We will never get there,” even though they didn’t have anywhere to be. 

Tony had relayed as much, the smirk creeping up on his face as slow as the roll of the tires inching up the interstate. “You do realize we’re just driving on a whim, right? I mean that was the whole point of your _grandiose_ road trip wasn't it?”

The driver earned an eye roll worthy of loathing if he were a typical guardian of a teenager, but he’s come to find that he delights in them in the way that some parents find pleasure in placing a “My Kid is an Honor Roll Student” bumper sticker on their car. 

“You wanted to go to Tahiti. I’d hardly call this grandiose!” 

“Making my point for me, Pete,” Tony reiterated with a disappointed sigh despite secretly having come around to Peter’s idea of a road trip. 

The billionaire had spent the first two weeks of March narrowing down vacation spots from all over the world and by the time Peter had dropped his backpack on the kitchen counter the first Friday afternoon of his week long Spring break, Tony had them ready to hop on a jet to Tahiti for hot sand and umbrella drinks. 

He had twisted a tiny, toothpick umbrella between his fingers while describing their villa over the ocean, but when he planted the drink decoration in a lock of curls at the crown of Peter’s head, the boy plucked it out with a downcast expression. 

“Uh…M-Mr. Stark, I- ….we don’t….” Peter stuttered as he plopped down on a barstool at the kitchen island, leg jerking up and down in a rhythm like his words. “Um….this isn’t necessary. Usually, I mean Spring Break isn’t a big deal….just like whatever, you know …sleep a lot and hang out with Ned. I mean, Tahiti is so….really. It’s…. too much.”

The right front tire of the car finds a small pothole and gives the whole Mustang a shake drawing Tony from his memory. He snags a glance at Peter who gives a pathetic excuse of a snore in response, neck still craning at an angle that’s going to hurt later. 

 

—————

Peter doesn’t remember falling asleep, can’t pinpoint where he dropped off from one safe place into something else but the cool glass against his forehead feels exactly the same. Peeling his heavy eyes open, he can see that the rural landscape blurring by the car window moments before has been replaced with the constantly changing skyline of New York City at a standstill. It’s one motionless picture of people attempting to reach the heights of those above them with Peter towering over all of it. 

It’s as though he could reach out and manipulate the world if it weren't for the separation of glass between them. He splays his hand out wide against the barrier, jumping at the tremors vibrating the glass. It feels like a pulse underneath his hand, slow and steady in between the rapid one beating in his fingers. Footsteps join the cadence, the two mirroring together to reiterate that there’s no other sound around him. He wants to turn and look, curious as to who is there with him, separated from the rest of the world with the ability to change it all, but realizes that he can’t.

“You’re not listening,” the person says, voice in equal volume to the pulse in the barrier.

Peter pulls his gaze away from his hand still pressed against the glass to the reflection seeping into it above his shoulder. “It’s alright, son. I didn’t either.”

His fingers curl away from the separation, tucking into his palm until he’s sure that there will be fine, red-lined crescent shapes indented into his skin. He turns his back on the barrier with a gaze ignited by a fury he hasn’t felt in a long time intent on burning a hole through his sudden company, but finds that he’s alone. 

He’s met with an abundance of black that reeks of the ability to swallow him whole. He takes a step away from it, then another until his back is against the glass. He splays his hands against it again, the calming thrum offering something more than it did before. “Listen, Peter.”

He wants to wake up, but he closes his eyes. “You’re not listening,” the voice says again, and Peter drops his head against the glass hard. “Wake up, wake up, wake up,” he pleads with himself, but nothing happens. 

He turns around to the glass again to see New York City still under paralysis, still under his reflection in the glass. The man appears behind him again, his image appearing like a blue stain on the city. “Just listen,” Captain America says with an air of sudden urgency, “ _Please._ We need -“ But his dream begins to shake apart.

 _Wake up!_

 

Peter jolts upright, seatbelt already straining to hold him in his place along with Mr. Stark’s arm that’s shaking in a way he’s never been allowed to see. He’s nearly hyperventilating by the time he remembers to breathe at all, and when he turns to Mr. Stark he notices the man is speaking to him, but he can’t hear it. The pulse from his dream is too loud in his ears, or maybe it’s his own. It’s fast now, but skipping like a stone across a lake and Peter’s afraid that if he takes his mind off of it for one second it’ll sink to a stop. 

But Mr. Stark’s fingers curl around his right elbow where the man’s arm is still stretched across him and gives him rough shake. “Peter!” It steals his attention away from the pulse in his ears and he starts panicking, if he wasn’t already. He tries to find it again, but latches on to a million other things instead. The cracks in the windshield, the smoke, the… _blood_. 

“Peter,” and somehow he realizes the difference between the way Mr. Stark shouted his name before to nearly whispering it now. He tries to focus on the man, but the slow spread of crimson he can see out of the corner of his eye is demanding of an audience so he twists almost violently away from Mr. Stark and scrambles for purchase on the door handle. 

It doesn’t budge, locking him good and tight. The buzz at the back of his head envelops him like bees on a hive and he squeezes spider-strength fingers until the handle pops off and the door swings open. He drops out of the car, the palms of his hands catching the pavement so quickly the first few layers of skin give way. Hands are on him again, pushing him back, back, back until he’s leaning against the car with his head pushed between his bent knees. His _spider-sense_ dwindles down to a hum despite the way Mr. Stark swarms around him like a colony of bees of his own. 

 

“Calm down, alright? Just listen to me.”

_You’re not listening._

“You’re alright. We’re okay.”

_It’s alright, son. I didn’t either._

“-Okay? Huh, Spider-Boy?” Mr. Stark’s hand finds the space under his chin and tugs up, bopping his knuckles against the bone Peter tries to keep from trembling. “You with me? ‘Cause you still look like you’ve flown into a bug zapper.”

Peter finds Mr. Stark’s face in the dark, the blinking glow of the emergency flashers casting faint, tinted shadows on his sweaty features. “S…so do you. You’re….bleeding.” 

The older man swipes the back of his hand across his forehead, examines the red smear across it once he brings it under his nose. “So I am. Rather have this though, than one of those ugly rash looking things from an airbag. Another reason to appreciate cars made before the ‘90s.You ever had one of those pop in your face?” Peter shakes his head even when Mr. Stark grabs each side of his face to inspect it for injuries. “No? Consider yourself lucky. You alright?”

Peter blinks at up at the man hovering over him, thinks that if he should consider himself lucky then he should be alright even if his mind feels like it’s swirling around like an umbrella in a Tahitian cocktail. He nods. “Yeah. What happened?”

The billionaire looks towards the front of the car and Peter remembers the cracked and bloodied windshield. He reaches up and curls his fingers around the soft material of the older man’s jacket sleeve. 

“Well, Bambi, unfortunately we hit your namesake,” Mr. Stark says, eyes towards the damage. “Hopefully, it’d been getting royalty checks from Disney ‘cause it tore up the car pretty good. Gonna have to pay for that, but uh….” he trails off while craning his neck a bit. “Pretty sure it already has.”

Peter swallows the lump in his throat and attempts to stave off the shiver trying to run up his spine. Aunt May use to fawn over him because he use to get chill bumps every time they passed road kill, even a skunk.

“Fawn, huh? Puns at a time like this, you’ll be alright,” Mr. Stark grins and pats him on the head. 

And yeah, Peter hadn’t meant to say that out loud. 

The older man stands from his crouch, moving towards the front of the car while talking over his shoulder. “Although your affinity for skunks has me _‘deerly ‘_ concerned.”

The kid rolls his eyes, before doing the same with his whole body alongside the car until he is upright on his feet. He staggers to stand at the front of the car with Mr.Stark, knocking into his slightly taller frame when he catches sight of the deer they hit laying off to the side. He feels rather than sees the older man step forward to inspect the vehicle damage more closely, jumping when the slightly wrinkled hood lets out a loud groan in the quiet of night only to realize….the deer did, too. 

He swallows the bile in his throat at the sight, the poor doe mangled worse than the Mustang giving slight twitches of an ear when Peter kicks up a few rocks while inching closer. A glossy, black orb blinks at him while tiny bursts of pained air push out of a nose of the same color. Peter wants to comfort her, but finds himself unable to touch her.

“Hey, hey. Get away from it. That thing could have a disease or something,” Mr. Stark says, appearing beside him like he’d just had to run a great distance and tugging him back behind him. 

“She’s still alive, Mr. Stark.”

“Exactly. Why are you trying to have a family reunion with it?”

Peter shakes his head and steps out around the older man. “No, I mean, she’s….. _still alive_.”

—————

Tony Stark’s idea of a vacation does not include riding in the middle seat of a tow truck at two-thirty in the morning next to a beer-gutted, balding guy named Lindsey, yet here he is. Complete with a pull out cup holder digging into his knees and the heat vent blowing straight at his face with the aroma of cigarette smoke. 

Peter nudges him in the side from where he sits in the much bigger passenger seat by the door and if Tony didn’t feel like he’s being held together by the stitches in his clothes, he’d have them switch. Lindsey had pulled up to tow them into the next Podunk town after a few attempts at calling in their stranded predicament with one bar of cell service. The guy seemed nice enough, but made a few wise cracks at Peter’s disheveled appearance and gave the kid a couple of glances Tony wasn’t sure what to make of so if he had to be the one smushed up against the sweaty, big guy….so be it. “Hmm?”

Peter opens his mouth, but Lindsey’s baritone voice echoes around the cabin of the truck. “Here we are,” he says, easing the vehicle to stop more gently than he’s done anything since they met. “Not much to look at, but the only hotel we got. You sure you want me to drop the car here? She ain’t going to be running nowhere without a shop.” 

Tony bends down to look around the rearview mirror at the one story hotel. If his car wasn’t decorated in deer guts and dents, it’d fit right in with the 1960’s structure. 

—————

By the time he sinks down onto the twin mattress inside their room, Tony feels old enough to fit right in, too. He rubs his hands over his face, longer than usual stubble scratching at his calloused skin, before sluggishly finding Peter fussing over their luggage. He organizes it underneath the small kitchenette table, then turns around asking, “Oh, did you want something out of your suitcase? You probably do. You got blood on your shirt and…I think Lindsey sweat on you during the drive over.”

Tony gives a small chuckle and waves the kid over to bring his bag. He dumps it on the bed beside him, but catches the sleeve of Peter’s sweater before the kid can move back over to his side of the room. “Hey.”

The boy looks nervous for reasons Tony is too tired to guess at. “You good? Adrenaline’s gone and all that. You were asleep when we hit so …rough way to wake up, though….I’ve had worse to tell the truth.” He gives a smile, but it’s visibly forced. “Seriously. Good?”

Peter nods once, worries the edge of his thumb between his teeth before asking, “Are you?”

“Of course, kid. Just a scratch. Now,” he says standing up with an energy he doesn’t feel, for a reason he does. “I need a shower, so if you want one with hot water you best go on ahead, young buck. Oh, poor choice of words. Your first response is the one I go with so you better be honest.”

“I’m …okay, Mr. Stark. You go ahead.”

Tony dips his head in accordance, lugging his bag off the bed. He makes an exhausted swipe with his arm in Peter’s direction as an attempt at offering some sort of affection, but the kid is out of reach so his hand just flops around a couple of times much to Peter’s amusement. Tony snorts back at him and shuts the bathroom door with a soft click. 

—————

He’d meant what he told Peter. 

There would be no hot water once Tony decided to leave the privacy of the bathroom. Whether or not he actually steps under it, is another question altogether. He’d turned the stubborn handle on the faucet of the shower after making sure the bathroom door was going to stay locked and pushed it to rest at the very end of the red temperature line. He stepped back to lean against the once white tile of the bathroom as he waited for the water to warm.

That had been twenty minutes ago.

He’s still in his clothes although he had toed-off his shoes and kicked them in the corner right before he sunk down the wall to sit on the floor moments ago. While counting the lines in the plaid-pattern bathmat underneath his bent legs, he rests his head against his folded arms and forces himself to calculate the area of each rectangle in the rug so that his mind can’t drift.

Only there’s a soft knock on the door, hesitance audible between the three strokes that come through. “Mr. Stark? Um….are y-you ok? I mean, not that you can’t take a long shower or anything….and I don’t care about the hot water. It’s just….you’ve been in there for like an hour. Not that- not that I’ve been timing you!! Oh god, no. Sorry. I’ll stop bothering you. Sorry.”

Despite the stuff swirling around in his head quicker than the water at the shower drain to make him not want to do so, he can’t help the small upward twitch of the corner of his mouth at Peter’s words. 

_An hour,_ he thinks. _Can’t be._

He reaches over and places his hand underneath the stream of water in the shower. Ice cold. 

“Just fine, Peter,” he assures, even though he feels the complete opposite. “This bathroom just reminded me of the one in the hotel that my high school prom date and I had a jolly good time in so I was reminiscing with some fun me time.”

There’s a disturbed choke that gets muffled by the door before Peter is yelling, “Mr. Stark!!! No!! You can’t- don’t stay stuff like that! That’s not-… just no!! Okay?!”

Tony’s shoulders bounce to a laugh he doesn’t give sound to, but he attempts to placate with, “I’m kidding!” Waiting a beat and after Peter’s indecipherable mutterings he says, “This bathroom looks nothing like that.”

He thinks he’ll get at least a tortured groan out of the kid, but the shadow underneath the doorframe stills and the shower drowns out the silence until Peter surprises him by arguing, “You didn’t even go to your high school prom!” 

 

—————

He hasn’t decided if he wants to fluster Peter even more or let the inappropriate joke die by the time he steps out of the bathroom after a quick and cold wash over. However, he finds that he doesn’t have to pick one way or the other since the kid is already passed out on top of the covers of his bed, laying face down with his sneakered feet hanging off the end. 

He feels too tired to maneuver him up the bed and too much of _something_ else to take the kid’s shoes off. Despite either, he knows he won’t be able to sleep. Whether it’s because of the emotional baggage he’s trying to ignore or the knowledge of the bar next door, he won’t chose, but he ends up leaving Peter a quick note and heads in that direction. 

It’s a quick walk next door made quicker by the chilly night air seeping through his thin, long-sleeved Metallica shirt. Briskly entering through the door of the small bar, he stops short at the entrance, a little thrown by the lack of motorcycle gangs and an abundance of cigarette smoke.  
Pop songs circa 1970 filter through the jukebox off in the corner partially hidden by people in fairly casual attire lounging at tables across the floor. It’s a bit jarring considering the outside of the building looked more like he might need a mullet and a taste for country music to enter rather than a Beatles shag and a mellow disposition. 

“You gonna stand there all night, John Boy?”

It’s shouted at him from the bar, but he has no idea why he’s being referred to as such. It must show on his face, because the woman behind the bar waves him over with a shake of her head. By the time he’s belly up to the surface, she’s setting a glass in front of him like she’s done this a million times. Given the wrinkles on her skin, she probably has. “Not a fan of the Waltons, huh?” She explains after his blank stare. “TV show in the ‘70s?”

“Ah. Not much of a TV family back then,” he offers with a wave of his hand and a slouch on the barstool. “And if we were, it certainly wouldn’t have been the Waltons.” 

“Can’t say I’m sorry about that. It brought you in here in one way or another. I’ll take…” she trails off while fiddling with bottles at her disposal and looking him over with a critical eye. “Daddy issues and a police record that’s sealed for a thousand, Alex.” 

“Wow. You really had me pegged until you thought my name was Alex. Don’t ruin my victory by claiming you were making a Jeopardy reference.”

“Oh, still bitter they wouldn’t let you on?”

“Please. That’s amateur hour and it’s not even an hour long show, so it’s even more half-assed with those whiz kids. Seriously, you’ve got the worst taste in television.” 

The woman swipes a strand of her gray-streaked black hair back into the sloppy ponytail she’s got the rest of it in and leans her elbows on the bar top. “Who needs television when I can come to work and listen to Tony Stark bitch about being disqualified from Jeopardy?”

He gives a small, bristled puff of air at that and motions her to pour something into his glass she’s given him. When she doesn’t move to do so, he says, “ Oh, I guess you need me to tell you what I want now that you’re not a physic. Whiskey. Your best.” 

She pours it without a retort and leaves him alone to stare down at his glass. 

 

He’s had a few drinks here and there since that argument he had with Peter right before the new year, but they were what he categorized as minuscule sips since he could never swallow past the guilt and internal panic at becoming the thing Peter had called him back then. So when his hand wraps around the glass, it’s with a huge heave that it makes it to his mouth and a brief flash of staring at Peter on the side of the road hours ago that has him taking a swig. He lets it burn down his throat and allows the sound of Peter’s voice to rush over him. 

_“Please, Mr. Stark! She’s….she’s suffering. We can’t…can’t just leave her like this. You gotta do something. Please.”_

He shakes his head and pushes the glass away when he thinks of the way he’d stood over the deer they hit, when he remembers what he did. 

“You still want this?” The woman is back, standing in front of him like she never left. She takes it in her hand when Tony shakes his head vehemently, but he reclaims it when she’s just about to pour it out. 

“Look, I know how to spot a person that needs this and one that thinks they do. Now you, honestly you could go either way, but….given your odd attempt at normalcy and domesticity I’ve heard about on the news, let’s go with the latter.”

He sighs with enough air to move his shoulders and scrubs at his face. “Don’t know if I can.”

The jukebox switches songs, pushing out an uptempo melody, but a lyric that isn’t. And God, if that isn’t Tony’s entire life in a nutshell. 

“Well, you won’t know if you don’t try,” the bartender encourages with a tone that says she actually doesn’t care one way or the other. “Here’s a tip, try giving these a little slosh.”

A bucket of peanuts is pushed under his nose as well as his glass of whiskey before she’s disappeared down to the other end of the bar again. He stares at the pair of things offered to him before giving an “aw, what the hell” kind of exhale. He tips the whiskey over the bucket, lets it spill a bit longer than she had probably meant for him to and then shakes the bucket to give each peanut a fair soak. 

Tony hums along to Albert Hammond’s voice carrying from the jukebox singing about the California rain while cracking the damp shell of a peanut. He tosses back the food like he use to pop the occasional sleeping aid after Afghanistan. He crunches a few more, delighting in the way he can taste the whiskey on them before the bartender surfaces again. 

“So?”

“Nice trick.”

“You learn a thing or two running a place like this for thirty years. Wanna know another?”

He doesn’t respond, knowing full well she’ll offer it whether he’s looking at her or picking out another peanut. She reaches out and shakes the bucket under his face before tapping at the side of his head. “This isn’t going to fix whatever else is going on up here, you know?” 

That damn upbeat melody makes it hard to focus on the heavy things rolling around in his head and he wants to tell her that whiskey soaked peanuts might if it wasn’t for the song echoing out into the room. He tugs the bucket closer to himself just as he hears the lyrics _“Don’t tell ‘em how you found me. Give me a break.”_

She raises an eyebrow at him like she purposefully played this song for him and he rolls his eyes while digging into his wallet. He throws a hundred dollar bill on the bar top and says, “For the bucket and a different damn song.”

He walks out the door with his bucket of whiskey soaked peanuts singing, _“It never rains in California, but girl don’t they warn ya? It pours. Man, it pours. “_

—————

The skin on Tony’s hands might not have been dried out and cracked with a purple hue had he not walked as slow as possible back to the hotel room. Therefore, upon opening the door and being rushed with a wave of heat he couldn’t help the relieved sigh that escaped him while stumbling over to his own bed in the dim light of the lamp he’d left on in between the two. 

When he turns around with sinking knees, he finds himself sitting on the edge of his twin mattress across from Peter who’s pulling himself upright and looking more awake than Tony. 

“Hi,” the older man offers, feeling a little self-conscious about being stared down by a kid after walking in from a bar at one in the morning with a bucket of peanuts. 

Peter crosses his legs indian style on his bed and fiddles with the long sleeves of his pajamas he’s changed into while Tony was gone. He looks towards the nightstand and then lets his eyes wander back to the older man. “I…got your note. I-“

“Yeah, sorry ‘bout that kid. You were asleep so I just….but I didn’t drink. Just a sip and-“

“Mr. Stark!” Peter chuckles, holding out pacifying arms. “It’s okay! I don’t care, I was just going to ask if they maybe had some food or something because…I’m starving.” 

Tony falls back on the bed, bucket of peanuts secured in the crook of his arm while wondering why the hell he’s trying to defend where he was and explain why to this kid, and berating himself for not feeding him all at the same time. Seriously, who is the child here?

“I don’t know about enough sustenance to cure starvation, but I did bring back peanuts.” He reaches and plucks a few from the bucket before launching them into the air in Peter’s direction. He cranes his neck to watch a few scatter on the opposite bed and one land in the fluffy mop on the kid’s head. 

An indignant, “Hey,” comes his way before he’s in an all out game of Battleship except with peanuts instead of missiles. Somewhere along the way, Tony pauses long enough to order a few burgers and an order of onion rings from the bar while promising to pay enough for a new selection of songs on their jukebox if their food could be delivered. 

By the time the food arrives with another bucket of peanuts with a tint of whiskey, there’s a classic rock station pushing music through the small alarm clock radio between their beds and there’s an array of peanuts on the carpet. Peter opens the door wide enough to exchange the money for food, but keep their mess hidden which Tony finds hilarious as he keeps the nuts against the door anyway. 

“You’re a child,” Peter mutters, dumping a bag of food in his lap and returning to sit on his own bed. They face each other while eating in silence, nodding along to the music and offering the occasional opinion or fact for a song. 

It isn’t until Peter’s wolfed down his food and back to eating peanuts that he looks over at Tony and asks, “Did you ever….like think…you’d get married or..have a family?”

The older man nearly chokes on his food, but he picks off a jalapeño from his burger like they’re too hot for his liking and then takes another bite. He’s still chewing when he shakes his head in the negative and inquires, “What makes you ask that?”

“I don’t know,” but his voices goes up at the end like he isn’t quite being honest. “This song, I guess.”

Bob Seger’s tinny voice spilling out into the room from the alarm clock speakers is singing about stealing a chance in a back alley or trusty woods, and God, Tony does not want to have the _Night Moves_ conversation with this kid. 

“If this is your way of bringing up the sex in high school discussion, I’m a bit impressed, but not happening,” he says, because yeah he shouldn’t care. Lord knows, he was _active_ at Peter’s age, but the kid in front of him looks all of _twelve_! 

A peanut hits him right between the eyes hard enough he knows there was a bit of spider strength used to project it. “That’s not why I was asking!!” 

Tony chuckles a bit before tossing an unshelled peanut back. Peter leans sideways to catch it in his mouth. “Then do tell.”

“I don’t know…just a question. Uncle Ben always liked this song.”

“I bet he did,” Tony mutters with just enough of an innuendo in his voice that Peter scrunches his face up.

“Stop it. Just forget it,” and for all that he wanted this conversation to end moments ago it nearly hurts now with the way Peter’s shoulders hunch. 

“No,” he relents, waits until Peter looks back up at him. “I never thought….wanted to get married or have kids.”

Peter tosses a peanut at him that he has to rock back to catch in his mouth and asks the question all kids ask. “Why?”

“I saw how my dad was in a marriage and figured I’d be no different and I was a shit kid that couldn’t hardly take care of myself, I couldn’t imagine having to be responsible for somebody else,” Tony answers, and he tries not to think about how easy it is to admit that right here right now.  
The kid blinks at him like he’s still balancing it on the scale of painfully true or complete bullshit.  
“And….and now?”

And shit. Of course it would be easy to tell your newly acquired kid that you couldn’t imagine having one. “And now….I feel different. What about you? Gonna marry Liz? Maybe MJ?”

Peter ducks his head with a negative shake and a quiet, “No, no, no. I don’t know. I’m a kid, I don’t think I’m supposed to think about that until like college or something, right?”

“Damn right.” Tony agrees, because he’s a _boy_. “But…,” and because he somehow knows that Peter may have filed his confession under painfully honest he adds, “For what it’s worth, between the two of us, I think you’d be a good dad to some spiderlings of your own one day.”

Peter smiles at him, but tries not to. “Thanks, I guess I have a good chance of being pretty decent. I mean….I have had good examples to live up to.” There’s a pregnant pause that Tony thinks is going to bring something worse than a baby at age fifteen and then the kid notes, “Three to be exact.”

And yeah, he’ll never understand this kid. 

“You know I meant actual spiders, right? Like we could get you a tarantula or something when we get back.” He earns two peanuts to the forehead for that. 

More silence follows, and they just keep catching peanuts in their mouths until Tony scratches at the cut on his temple from the deer fiasco earlier. Peter observes him, biting his lip to keep himself from voicing something he desperately wants to. 

“What is it, kid?”

Peter bites harder and then, “What….what was bothering you earlier?”

“What do you mean?”

“In the bathroom…I mean, I wasn’t trying to…but the spider bite….my senses. I could hear you. You were….upset.”

Tony wants to feel violated, angry even, but Peter makes his hands disappear into the sleeves of his shirt and blinks owlishly at him. “Nothing, Peter. Don’t worry about it. Alright? This is Spring Break! Remember? It’s supposed to be fun!”

For some reason, Peter tenses up and sets his jaw like he’s angry. Without looking up from picking at a thread on the bedspread he says, “I..I know, Mr. Stark, but I just…can I tell you something?”

“......Always.”

“It’s just…you and everybody, actually, keep treating me like a kid-“

“Because you are,” Tony explains, but Peter twists his head in protest.

“No, I mean, yeah I’m fifteen, but so much has happened to me. My whole life…. starting with my parents. And Uncle Ben, Spider-Man, and now…now all this.It’s just….”

Tony knows he could win this argument, knows how to make a kid feel like their thoughts don’t matter much in an adult world because it’s what his father did to him. However, when he leans forward and asks, “It’s just what, Peter?” it isn’t because Howard never did. It’s because whatever it is Peter has to say matters to Tony.

“It’s just I’m this kid to everybody, you know? But…Mr. Stark….Tony, I just don’t feel like a kid in here anymore.” Peter’s slender hand splays over his too big of a heart and of course, the first time this kid calls him by his first name it’s to drop something like this on him. 

The billionaire takes in a big, deep lungful of air and lets it out slow. He rubs a hand through his hair he didn’t wash, but should have, and moves to perch on the edge of his mattress. “Okay. I still can’t believe that I’m legally responsible for another human being outside of the Iron Man gig, but I’m….learning to be okay with it and I mean, you’re still alive so I must be doing something right.”

Peter nods along and scoots to the edge of his own mattress like he expects Tony to go on because yeah, he never answered the question that started this particular conversation. 

“And I still think I’m going to screw all this up, but if it’s between the anxiety that causes or not having it at all, I’m always going to chose this. Every time, kid, I swear. But sometimes I’m just not that great at dealing with it and I’m never going to put that on you, whether your fifteen or forty-five. Capisce?”

“Y-yeah, but I’m just asking…don’t treat me….just be honest with me about stuff. We’re supposed to have each other's backs, right?”

Tony nods, “We do, Peter, and if you want total honesty…..I didn’t kill the deer we hit.”

“What?” The mop of curls in front of him raises quickly as Peter snaps his head up. “But you said…we wouldn’t let her suffer!”

“I know…I know, but…think about it, okay? If you’re Bambi, and that was a doe we hit, she’s like your mother and if I killed her that makes me like the hunter that killed Bambi’s mom and everybody hates that guy so really I just I couldn’t do it.”

Peter blinks at him and Tony isn’t sure if the kid is going to cry because the animal wasn’t put out of her misery or yell at him for lying about it, but then about seven peanuts hit him in the face and the kid, and God yes, _his kid_ says around loud chortles, “That’s so stupid, Tony!! Nobody would think that!! Or even think to think that!!”

If Peter ends up with a bucket of whiskey soaked peanuts on his head with said excess whiskey pouring out onto his clothes….well, then Tony always figured on the off chance that he had ended up with kids, alcohol would be involved in some fashion. 

—————  
By the time the two of them are in the elevator of Stark Tower after flying back to the city while Happy made sure the Mustang was transported back, there’s four days left of Spring Break. Even though it would take a few hours at most to fix up the car himself, Tony has already decided that he’ll make it last four if it means Peter's going to help him. 

“Hey, Tony?” Peter cocks his head in his direction as the elevator dings their floor's arrival. “Next time, lets just go to Tahiti.”

Tony grabs him by the shoulders to steer him off the lift. “Kid, I’ll bribe you out of school so we can still go if you want.”

Peter begins to laugh, but stops short, “ Wait, really?”

“Ye-“ But suddenly an intruding voice erupts their conversation. 

“Tony. Peter.”

Tony strides across the floor as he calls for the Iron Man suit and it’s all Peter can do to not run for his web shooters. 

“I’ll give you one chance to get out.” Tony threatens while being encased in his suit. 

Peter stares at the intruder, then does a double take when another appears to the man’s left. They both look nervous, but Peter can sense an air of urgency instead of danger at the back of his neck. 

“Just listen,” the man says, extending his hands to hold Tony’s form back “ _Please._ We need help.”

And yeah, when Iron Man’s fist connects to the side of Steve Rogers' face, Peter knows the man needs it. 

“Please, Peter,” the second intruder pleads, much softer than anything Steve had voiced. “Just listen.”

That’s when he remembers his dream, the dream of Captain America trying to ask for help. He takes one look at Wanda Maximoff, red swirling around her hands, before taking off in the direction of his web shooters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fear not, this story will not have romantic relationships of any kind (because I couldn't write that if I tried, honestly) and will never venture off course of focusing on Tony and Peter. Nor will it dive into Steve and Tony left-over Civil War angst or bash Steve Rogers for his loyalty to Bucky. This story (from the beginning) is all about Peter and Tony painfully growing into a family and that's what it'll be for nine more chapters. :)  
> Love each and every one of you!


	5. April

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the sixth month wait.  
> No excuses, but here's a long chapter.

The mid-April wind swept his hair in gentle chaos as it swirled into the car from the open sunroof. Being a man who doesn’t appreciate winter as some New Yorkers do, Tony has always took to rolling down the car windows at the first hint of heat on the spring breeze. It’s not enough for short sleeves, Peter’s bundled form next to him is testament enough for that, but his impatience for summer makes the chill bearable. 

He chances a side-eye peek at his charge huddled into the traditional teenage wardrobe of a thin hoodie and skinny jeans while one-handing the wheel down sixth avenue. Things have been awkward between them as of late. Allison picking up on that from the moment they both walked into her office an hour and some odd minutes ago. 

Tony hadn’t necessarily expected her to change the status quo of things, the last four months of transition had proved that, but he would have appreciated leaving there feeling like he knew how to do so himself. Instead, he’s white knuckling the steering wheel while trying to figure out how to start a conversation with a “moody teenager who is dealing with a lot”. 

“I’m sorry,” Peter says, head turned so that he’s looking at the city crawling by. 

The older man wants to rush and agree, apologize for whatever the hell he’s done to make dinners awkward and lab time near nonexistent, but he remembers what Allison said about having to understand that he’s not always responsible for Peter’s attitude and to make the kid explain himself before taking the blame for something. 

“What for?” Pushing his glasses up his nose with a knuckle, he double checks that the intersecting traffic has stopped from both directions more times than he normally would. He eases the car along with an impatient foot. 

“For…just being….weird, I guess,” Peter folds the ends of his sleeves over his hands and looks at Tony the way the older man checked for red light runners mere seconds ago. 

Tony snorts while leaning his head against the rest at his neck. “Don’t ever apologize for being you, kid.”

In his peripheral vision, he catches the sunlight bounce on the upturned ends of Peter’s hair as it shakes with a negative connotation. “I mean, _things_ have been ….weird.”

 

A bike messenger darts out into the street between parked cars and Tony ends up catching the next light. He sighs as he rolls to a stop and chances eye contact with his kid for what feels like the first time in weeks. The headrest still holds his weight, but he offers a heavy smile at the way Peter looks at him through his lashes by not quite raising his head far enough to look him straight in the eye. 

“Hey.” He says it with just enough ease that Peter knows its implication is a peace offering. 

“H-hey.”

“You know who can help us get our shit together?”

Peter’s brow furrows in the way it does when Tony tries to bait him with trick questions in the lab. 

“Margie.”

Peter laughs, and Tony would have missed when the light turned green by trying to remember the sound of it in case he has to go a long time without hearing it again, but the jackass behind him honks his horn. 

“You know she hates it when you call her that.”

“Oh, I know she does, Peter Rabbit.”

“Stop,” Peter groans at the name. 

—————

The aglets of Peter’s shoelaces play an annoying cadence against the metal foot rim of the barstool from where his knees bob up and down to nonexistent music. He twists his nervous energy by turning side to side on the swivel seat, opting to bend his straw several times over rather than tear its casing to shreds as he usually does. 

The midday sunlight squeezes through the high rises across the street and pours into the diner the way fountained Coke pours from the soda machine near the grill, filling it up and overflowing enough that it escapes out the sides in small streams. It dulls the details of the diner, making them grainy in a way that still feels like morning. The cigarette burn splotches on the bar top that Tony took to memorizing the shape of turn into one circle of mud sloshing in a cream colored mug. Despite its horrid taste, the hot coffee feels good sliding down to his stomach as the sun warms his back. 

They’ve never sat at the bar before, never been there with the sun still hanging either so it had shooed them away from their usual table with a harsh glare pelting their eyes. Peter hadn’t seemed to mind, hopping up onto the barstool Marge patted on her way back behind the counter to fill up a translucent red cup with fizzing caffeine. Tony slumped next to him, bracing himself with his elbows before realizing he’d actually have to turn his head to look at his kid if he wanted to see him. Peter hadn’t minded at all. 

Marge sets Peter’s drink in front of him, watches him let his straw unfold before pushing it down into the hissing liquid, then takes out a perfectly linear one and plops it in there for good measure. Peter grins at her around the wonky one between his lips, before remembering his manners and sitting up straight to offer a more polite one. She rolls her eyes and turns to slap the ticket over the grill for the cook, saying, “ Their usual.” She turns back to them while letting the counter take her weight at the hip. “But, I guess you boys won’t be having the milkshakes though.”

Tony pretends the coffee burns his tongue on his fourth sip to cover up the choking. He may have suggested that Marge could help them get their shit together, but he didn’t think it was so askew that’d she’d know without them telling her. Sure, they weren’t here at the usual time or in their usual seat, and Peter may have made more eye contact with the fly swarming the place than Tony, but it wasn’t that noticeable that they were in a weird phase. 

Marge points a thumb over her shoulder towards the ice cream machine and explains, “It’s broken. Can’t get the replacement part for another couple of weeks or so. She’s an old timer, been here since the place opened.”

“Oh,” Tony says, relieved, “my condolences. I’m sure you two share many memories together.” He’s not sure of many things these days, but teasing Marge knowing she’ll take it as good as she gives is one of them. 

“Oh, can it, Stark. At least some of us can still remember our youth.”

Another patron makes the chime above the door give a ding, and he watches Marge takes off at an overworked waddle to seat the man at a table at the far end of the establishment. On his way back to turn front, he catches Peter’s shoulders shaking in silent mirth at his expense. 

“Laugh it up, Buttercup. Marge and I both will remember yours,” he assures, before leaning close enough so that their shoulders brush. “Every embarrassing detail.” 

Some of the amusement fades out of Peter’s shoulders as he turns to Tony, but he still raises the corners of his mouth. “You know, we could probably fix the ice cream machine,” he says, like Tony hadn’t said anything at all. 

Tony blinks at him, having not expected that response. He’s not sure if it’s Peter’s genuine kindness that wants to fix it, or he’s that desperate to talk about things they keep close to the chest unless milkshakes are involved. Either way, he feels he can’t go wrong encouraging either one.

“I guess we could, but I don’t work on an empty stomach.”

“Yes you do! All the time!” 

“That is not work, Underoos. That is fun. This. This would be considered work.”

A shadow breaks up the heat at Tony’s back, then casts a shadow over Peter, before melting away and materializing in the shape of Marge in front of them. “I wondered when you two would get to bickering.”

“Uh, not bickering,” Tony clarified. “We’re working out a business proposal.”

“Business proposal? For what? Kid’s twelve. Only business he should be interested in is girls.” 

“I’m fifteen, Marge,” Peter says, voice cracking at the right time to shade the tips of his ears a brilliant red. 

“And he’s not allowed to date until he’s thirty. Besides, you’ll be interested in this venture, I’m sure. Go on, Peter Rabbit, tell her.”

Peter rolls his eyes, but tells the waitress his offer of fixing the ice cream machine after Tony eats like the man child he is. Marge’s whole body shakes as she laughs at Tony’s insulted expression. 

———————

The pickles burn in his chest as he bends over to look at the back of the ice cream machine. He reminds himself to stop ordering them while taking the cover off the metal box. “Alright, let’s see what we’re working with here. Oh, look Pete, I found your bunny siblings,” Tony says while wiping away the dust bunnies from the insides.

“You’re hilarious.” Peter deadpans while swinging his legs side to side from where he sits on the counter next to the ice cream machine. “Can you see how to fix it?”

There’s a couple of tubes hung loose and a metal bracket bent to hell. He asks Peter to look through the parts they managed to scrounge up from the back to see if there’s something they could use in place of the bracket. 

He fiddles with the tubing to give his hands something to do while watching Peter sift through their materials. If Tony wasn’t annoyed by the constant door chime singing over the classic rock coming from the jukebox, he could almost pretend they were just back at the lab and hanging out. Only if they were there, Tony would have this fixed to less than a minute and he wouldn’t need a million buffers between him and his kid. 

_“Make him explain himself,”_ Allison had said in their meeting that morning. _“Sometimes kids just don’t know how. You have to lead the way.”_

He agreed with her, because he remembered what it was like to feel everything at once and nothing at all and have no explanation for it. To snap at everything, but need everyone. The problem was, in order to get Peter talking Tony was going to have to start and they both knew where that line began. Maybe if he could start just a little before it, they could ease their way across it together. 

 

“You know how May wasn’t my biggest fan at first?” He asks, and it’s such a cheap shot that he feels his hands start to shake, but he knows it’s the only way he can do this. Peter stills in his search, but gives a reluctant nod all the same.

“It’s because….she didn’t trust me with you. She was right not to in the beginning,” Tony says, because he may be playing a little below the belt but he’ll never down right cheat when it comes to Peter. “I had no idea what I was setting myself up for, you for, us for…whatever. She knew better than to let you around me, because…..you were everything to her, not me.”

Peter picks up a piece that he found minutes ago that would work just fine and turns it between his fingers. “And now?”

Tony pushes air through his nose, but takes the piece from Peter with a gentle tug. He puts it in place in the machine with a few tweaks and a couple of hits and attaches the hoses. “And now, I think this piece, although not made for it, fits just fine. It’ll give a groan or two, maybe a couple of mishaps, but should work just smoothly after a while.” He plugs in the machine and it grumbles to life. 

Tony wipes his hands on a dishrag laying nearby and stands so that he’s in front of Peter, just out of the circumference of the boy’s swinging legs. He swats at the young vigilante’s knees with the rag and says, “Much like you and I, kid.”

 

Peter scoops up the parts they didn’t use and puts them in a small cardboard box with stained edges. “You…really think so?”

Tony drops the rag on top of the box and slides it down the counter before leaning his hip against the bar at Peter’s left. “I know so. But back to my main point here, can you really blame me if I don’t trust the others with you?”

Peter latches onto his gaze with a renewed sense of purpose. “But they’re the Avengers! They’re….they’re you’re friends!”

 

Tony nods his head along even though he doesn’t agree. “And you’re….my kid. And like May, I’m not just going to trust just anybody with you just because they’re superheroes. You don’t know them, Peter. Not really.”

“I’m a superhero, do you not trust me?” 

Sure, he was pressing for a heart-to-heart talk and probably going the long way around to get there, but he’s not so sure why the kid is getting heated about it. 

“You’re really missing the point here kid.”

Peter slides off the counter and into Tony’s personal space, but instead of making residence with barely concealed anger that so many other do, Peter steps out around him and heads towards the door without so much as a look in either his or Marge’s direction. As he nears the door he asks, “Can we just go? Please?” but doesn’t wait for permission to throw open the door. 

——————

By the time he gets his brain wrapped around the idea of chasing after him, he catches up to Peter back at the compound. They storm through opposite doors on either side of the back entrance and come to a startled stand off until Peter darts down the hall towards his room. 

“Peter, what the hell?” He demands, barely stopping the kid’s bedroom door with his arm and the tip of his shoe before the boy could slam it. Peter comes to a stop at the window on the other side of his bed, shoulders heaving with something Tony doesn’t understand. 

“What is happening here, kid? I-“

“Why can’t you just forgive them?” It’s spoken so softly, Tony double checks to make sure the TV is turned off and it’s not someone’s voice coming from there. He only sees his haggard reflection staring back at him in the black screen. 

“Forgive who?”  
“Cap. The others,” Peter questions, but then turns with pleading eyes lined with tears of unknown origin. _“Bucky?”_

It hits Tony right underneath the scar of the arc reactor, pulling at the raised skin in a way that only wormholes and infinity stones do. “Peter.”

“No!” Peter shakes his head, his everything, with fingers curled into his palms keeping his strength at bay. “Just tell me why?”

 

“It doesn’t matter. It has nothing to do with us, okay?”

“Yes, it does!”

Tony takes a step back, but only one given the kid seems to shrivel with the idea of him walking out and he’ll never do that. He won’t _ever_ do that. 

“Okay, Pete,” he relents in almost a whisper. “Okay, just….tell me why. Tell me what the hell is going on here, because I…I got nothing.”

Peter swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing the way his knees shake behind the other side of the bed. “You….you have to forgive them. You have to be able to forgive Bucky.”

His scarred skin feels inflamed, red and blistered with something he doesn’t want to identify. He kneads at it, tips of his fingers rubbing up and down the line. “And you gotta tell me _why_.” Because he doesn’t understand. He doesn’t fucking understand how this kid who he’s tried to do right by for five long months can stand here and choose them. How another damn person can choose them. 

Peter nearly wilts in front of him, but shakes his head with what little he has left. Tears rush down his red cheeks, stream down his neck and soak at the collar of his hoodie. “Because…because if you can’t….”

Tony grabs the edge of Peter’s desk, braces himself for the last ultimatum he’s sure he’ll ever live through. Papers crumple under his hand, sloppy diagrams buckling under his ministrations even though he helped the kid put them there in the first place. It hurts, and his breath catches at the thought of all the nights he stopped working on the Iron Man suit to eat Chinese take out at the kitchen table over high school textbooks. Of all the school functions he silently promised to make it to. Of all the things he’s done so far to try and prevent another person from leaving him. 

“Then…then you won’t ever forgive me.”

Numbness spreads from underneath his fingers still on his scar.  
“Wha- what do you mean, Peter? Forgive you for what?”

When Peter looks up, eyes full of a sadness Tony has put five months of his life into curing, he bites his lip trying to keep it from spilling out between them, but he gags with it, coughs in a way that if Tony didn’t need the desk to hold himself up he’d be running for the trashcan in the bathroom to hold under the kid’s mouth. He wouldn’t have been quick enough though because it all comes out at once and too quick to prepare for. 

“For…for killing Aunt May.” 

Peter presses the backs of his knuckles into his eyes and drops to the floor, wall catching his back to keep him upright. “I killed her. It was me. My fault!”

Tony feels the air leave him, and stumbles to kneel down in front of Peter, knees practically soaking up the vomit of guilt spilling out into the room. “No, buddy, that’s not-“

But Peter keeps going, keeps forcing words out between giant gasps of air. “Just…just like Ben!Just like it! And I..I didn’t mean to..I didn’t think…..but it was me.”

Tony grabs the sides of his head, forces him to look at him with gentle thumbs massaging at the damp skin of the boy’s cheeks. He knows it won’t do any good to argue, to tell him there’s no way in hell it was his fault because Peter just keeps saying, “It was. It was. It _was me_.”

So he nods, just so he can catch Peter’s gaze enough to get him to listen. “Then tell me, Pete. Explain it to me, alright? Like the diagrams from your homework, walk me through it.”

Peter’s fingers wrap around his wrists but he doesn’t push him away. Instead he clings to him, like he’ll bolt the minute he starts his reasoning. “I was…I was supposed to pick up the milk. I was supposed to get it on my way home from school. And I was !! I swear, Mr. Stark, I was on my way to get it, but I heard this woman yelling a couple of blocks away.”

He knows he should be more upset with what is overall occurring but the way Peter calls him Mr. Stark nearly topples him over, but he bounces on the balls of his feet in his crouch to give his legs encouragement to keep holding him up. 

“I didn’t think….I just….I thought that I could stop whatever it was and then go back and get the milk, you know?”

“I know,” Tony offers, near a whisper and he doesn’t think Peter hears it. 

“But the guy ran and I chased him. I couldn’t let him get away, he…he tried to…rob her and…he had a gun and she had a baby with her! He couldn’t get away and he didn’t!! I caught him and gave him to the police. So I, went back to check on her and she…she was so scared, so scared, Mr. Stark. So I offered to walk her home which was just a couple of blocks away.”

Tony’s legs ache something fierce, and Peter’s starting to gulp air again so he urges, “How does this get back to May?”

“Because I forgot the milk!! I walked the lady home and then I…I just forgot!! So when I got home and May asked where it was …she…she was so mad! She kept shouting that she asked me to do one thing for her! One thing! And I couldn’t remember it. I - I told her I would just go back and get it, but she….but she said no! She insisted that she go get it.”

Tony relieves his legs and sits down next to Peter and pulls him into his side, arms wrapping around him to shield him from the confession floating around the room, because he knows what happens next. Knows that it’s what prompted the phone call that changed his life forever. 

Tony shushes him, something he’s never done for anybody, but presses his nose into Peter’s curls desperately trying to get his words to sink in. “It’s okay, Peter. It’s okay. You can’t blame yourself for what happened after she left. You can’t.”

Peter shakes in his hold, “No, no. It is my fault. Just like I didn’t do anything and Uncle Ben got killed. It’s the same! And they’re both gone, and it’s all my fault!”

Tony doesn’t know what more he can say, so he holds on to his kid as tightly as the kid clings to him and shushes him until he’s reduced to sniffling into the older man’s shirt. 

“Pete?” He asks, squeezes him when he does so he knows that there isn’t an answer that will make him let go. “What does any of this have to do with….with the others? With…Barnes?”

Peter untucks himself from Tony’s hold just enough to look up at him and clarifies, “Because Bucky…didn’t know what he was doing when he did it. He didn’t mean to do all those things. And neither …neither did I! I swear, I didn’t. So if you can’t forgive Bucky for what he did when people…people _brainwashed_ him to do it…then…then how could you ever forgive me for…for what I did just on my own?!” 

“Okay,” Tony gasps, pulling Peter back to him and slouching into the wall at his back. “Alright, you’ve drawn some really, and I mean _really_ big parallels between the two of you. Gosh kid, we have to get you some more hobbies if you have enough free time to think of all this.”

He feels Peter tense in his arms, feels him building up a wall after letting everything loose. 

“But I need you to listen to me. Really listen to me, because I’m only going to say this once. I have nothing to forgive you for, you hear me? Absolutely nothing. I don’t blame you for what happened to your Aunt or your Uncle. You shouldn’t either, but we will work through that. _Together_ , because I can tell that’s not going to go away overnight.”

He runs his hands through the boy’s curls under his chin and sighs.

“Just like I can’t let go of…of what happened to my parents overnight. I know…the Barnes that Cap knew, the one laying down in our medbay, didn’t mean to do it. But it…it’s hard to differentiate between him and the guy I ….I watched on the tape.”

He feels Peter shuddered underneath him and starts running his hand up and down his back. Closing his eyes, he remembers his mother sitting the exact same way with him out on the back lawn, underneath the big Ash tree, with a book in her hand. He remembers the way she read to him when he was five and too smart for _The Tales of Peter Rabbit_ , but rocking him as she read it out loud anyway. He remembers her understanding demeanor, her soft voice and kind eyes. Remembers how Bucky took all of that from her in her last moments. 

He tries to quell the jolt of nerves he gets from that final thought, tries to remember back to a few months ago when he first sat in the diner with Peter and wanted nothing more than his mother to meet his kid. He wants to know that she is proud of him and …loves him the way he loves Peter. 

He hugs the boy closer, wishing he could have had his mother do the same for him one last time. He won’t ever get it, so he adds, “But if it means this much to you, I’ll work on forgiving them.”

“R-really?”

“Really. As long as you work on forgiving yourself.”

Peter nods and swears, “I will, Tony. I promise, I will. Together, right?”

He thinks of the way his mother use to hold his hand when he was little, of the way she squeezed it when Howard walked in with an angry, demanding air. The way she would whisper, _“Be a brave boy, my little rabbit.”_

He squeezes Peter a little bit tighter and promises, “Together, Peter Rabbit. Always.”

 

———————

Soft shades of graphite warm underneath the afternoon sunlight sinking down behind the treelined perimeter of the Avengers Compound. At the base of one of the natural posts sits Steve Rogers, roots growing wide and deep on either side of him as he holds a sketchbook on the bends of his drawn knees. The late-April wind blows at the corners of the pages, curling them around his hand running in a repetitive motion across the paper. 

“Who are they?”

The tentative question barely carries over the intentional cracking of twigs beneath sneakered feet so Steve smoothes the paper flat in an open invitation for the boy to look more closely.

“Some neighborhood kids Bucky and I used to play with.” He tilts his head to watch Peter sit down on the other side of the tree root jutting up out of the ground as if even nature is working to keep them at a distance. He looks so much younger, but somehow older, all the same since he saw in Germany. It’s been four weeks since they’d shown up unannounced at Tony’s door begging for help with a severely injured Bucky bleeding on Stark’s pristine white couch. He’s not sure why they’ve been allowed to stay this long, not sure why they were allowed to stay at all given their welcome. 

“What ever happened to them?” Peter keeps his gaze fixed on the faces frozen in time on the page. 

“Honestly, I don’t know. I learned pretty quick not to go digging into the past after the ice. Just made things harder to deal with and kept me from moving forward.”

“Is that …is that why you …d-didn’t want to tell Tony about what really happened to his parents?”

It’s a punch in the gut, but Steve’s experienced enough to take it and slowly release it back in a controlled exhale of air. Peter may be a bit timid and apprehensive, but he’ll still say what he thinks and Steve has to admire that.

“Sorry…I shouldn’t….I just…”

“It’s fine, Peter,” he assures, even though the trunk of the tree is digging painfully into his back from where he sinks a bit more of his weight onto it and a fifteen year old kid is calling him on his bullshit. “It’s….complicated.”

“That’s what Tony says, but…”

Steve dates his drawing, and turns to a new sheet in his sketchbook. “But what?” 

“I just….I wish it wasn’t.”

 

Despite having sketchbooks filled with them, Steve learned at a young age not to put stock in wishes. “That’s the way it is, son.”

He knows Peter is watching his pencil drag grey lines across a blank page, morphing into shapes, changing into pictures. He’s never drawn himself as he once was, pre-serum and sure of all the choices he made. He draws Spider-Man instead, pressing harder into the paper while shading the figure on the chest until slender fingers still his hand. He allows the pencil to be taken, he feels like he doesn't have a choice but to watch Peter erase the spider emblem. 

Peter tucks the pencil back into the older man’s hand. He’s not sure why Peter hasn’t been able to don the Spider-Man suit, but he thinks that if Tony would allow it, he’d like to help him get back in it. “I’d think you of all people would know that things never stay as they are.”

 

He can’t help but laugh, can’t help but admit to himself it feels good too, either.  
“Is this you trying to get Tony and I in the same room again? We’re trying, Peter, I promise.”

“I know,” Peter exhales and shuffles around until his legs are criss crossed and he sitting facing the older hero but at his side. “I mean, he didn’t punch you like when we got back from our trip so that’s progress, yeah?”

Steve chuckles again and brushes the backs of his fingers where he’d felt that bruise for a couple of days despite his advanced healing. “Right. And we’re still here so…he hasn’t kicked us out.”

“He wouldn’t.” Peter says so sure of it that Steve can’t bother to think he’s wrong. “Not when Bucky is still healing.”

“I think we owe you a special thanks for that.”

“No. It’s nothing.”

“Still. Thank you. Whatever you said to him, he’s more willing to….listen, at least.”

Peter nods and fiddles with the ends of his sleeves the way he does when he’s waging a full on battle inside his head. 

“What is it, son?”

The boy’s head pops up, a bit of a surprised manner painting his face underneath the embarrassment of being called out. “Can you…will you…help me to get back in the suit?”

“Uh….Peter,” the Captain scratches the back of his head despite having the thought himself mere moments ago. “Tony didn’t really approve of that when we first got here, when he found out you’d been visiting. I don’t want to do anything that-“

“He won’t care, I swear.”

“Pete-“

“Look, we talked about it…and he knows that we’re…that we’re all….”

Steve closes his sketchbook and tucks it into his bag that he’d brought outside, but pauses to look at the boy beside him. “That we’re what?”

“That we’re all family. Or trying to be. Even Bucky. Please, Cap?”

Steve pushes air through his nose while considering and then raises a finger at Peter,  
“Fine, but I have to know tony is okay with it, first.”

Peter jumps up at that and starts running towards the compound. Steve can’t help but feel like he should run away from it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure how to feel about this chapter, but after sixth months you guys deserve something. Thanks for never giving up on this story and taking the time ask about it and encourage me to update. It means the world to me. You won't have to wait nearly as long for the next chapter which will expand and tie up some loose ends in this one. 
> 
> Leave a comment if you're not too mad about how long you had to wait for this chapter. *hides*
> 
> .......Come find me on Tumblr (djdangerlove) in the meantime.

**Author's Note:**

> The remainder of this story will be a continuation of how Tony and Peter become a family over the course of a year. Each chapter will represent a new month in the year and bring new challenges and characters that create the ups and downs of family that these two will have to figure out how to navigate together.
> 
> *Find me on tumblr at djdangerlove for a playlist that inspires this story.


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